University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Gift  of 

Donald  R.  Fleming 

In  memory  of 
Kathi  Fleming,  UC  '39 


• 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 


"Merci,  Monsieur  le  Due" 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 


BY 
BOOTH  TAJRKINGTON 


GARDEN  CITY  NEW  YOHK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1920 


Copyright,  18»§,  1900, 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1905,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1904,  by  Harper  and  Brother* 

Copyright,  1907,  by 
THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

Copyright.  1907,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved, 

including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages 
including  the  Scandinavian. 


CONTENTS 

J»AGE 

Monsieur  Beaucaire 1 

The  Beautiful  Lady 73 

His  Own  People      .  .       .  161 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE  young  Frenchman  did  very  well  what 
he  had  planned  to  do.  His  guess  that  the 
Duke  would  cheat  proved  good.  As  the 
unshod  half-dozen  figures  that  had  been  standing 
noiselessly  in  the  entryway  stole  softly  into  the 
shadows  of  the  chamber,  he  leaned  across  the  table 
and  smilingly  plucked  a  card  out  of  the  big  Eng- 
lishman's sleeve. 

"Merci,  M.  le  Due!"  he  laughed,  rising  and  step- 
ping back  from  the  table. 

The  Englishman  cried  out,  "It  means  the  dirty 
work  of  silencing  you  with  my  bare  hands!*'  and 
came  at  him. 

"Do  not  move,"  said  M.  Beaucaire,  so  sharply 
that  the  other  paused.  "Observe  behind  you." 

The  Englishman  turned,  and  saw  what  trap  he 
had  blundered  into;  then  stood  transfixed,  impotent, 
alternately  scarlet  with  rage  and  white  with  the  vital 
shame  of  discovery.  M.  Beaucaire  remarked,  in- 


4  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

cheating  the  silent  figures  by  a  polite  wave  of  the 
hand,  "Is  it  not  a  compliment  to  monsieur  that  I 
procure  six  large  men  to  subdue  him?  They  are 
quite  devote'  to  me,  and  monsieur  is  alone.  Could 
it  be  that  he  did  not  wish  even  his  lackeys  to  know 
he  play  with  the  yo'ng  Frenchman  who  Meestaire 
Nash  does  not  like  in  the  pomp-room?  Monsieur 
is  unfortunate  to  have  come  on  foot  and  alone  to 
my  apartment." 

The  Duke's  mouth  foamed  over  with  chaotic 
revilement.  His  captor  smiled  brightly,  and  made 
a  slight  gesture,  as  one  who  brushes  aside  a  boister- 
ous insect.  With  the  same  motion  he  quelled  to 
stony  quiet  a  resentful  impetus  of  his  servants  to- 
ward the  Englishman. 

"It's  murder,  is  it,  you  carrion!"  finished  the 
Duke. 

M.  Beaucaire  lifted  his  shoulders  in  a  mock  shiver. 
"What  words!  No,  no,  no!  No  killing!  A  such 
word  to  a  such  host!  No,  no,  not  mur-r-der;  only 
disgrace!"  He  laughed  a  clear,  light  laugh  with  a 
rising  inflection,  seeming  to  launch  himself  upon  an 
adventurous  quest  for  sympathy. 

"You  little  devilish  scullion!"  spat  out  the  Duke. 

"Tut,  tut!    But  I  forget.     Monsieur  has  pursue* 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  5 

his  studies  of  deportment,  amongs'  his  fellow-coun- 
trymen." 

"Do  you  dream  a  soul  in  Bath  will  take  your 
word  that  I— that  I " 

"That  M.  le  Due  de  Winterset  had  a  card  up  his 
sleeve?" 

"You  pitiful  stroller,  you  stable-boy,  born  in  a 
stable " 

"Is  it  not  an  honor  to  be  born  where  monsieur 
must  have  been  bred?" 

"You  scurvy  foot-boy,  you  greasy  barber,  you 
cutthroat  groom ' 

"Overwhelm'!"  The  young  man  bowed  with 
imperturbable  elation.  "M.  le  Due  appoint*  me 
to  all  the  office*  of  his  househol'." 

"You  mustachioed  fool,  there  are  not  five  people 
of  quality  in  Bath  will  speak  to  you — 

"No,  monsieur,  not  on  the  parade;  but  how  many 
come  to  play  with  me  here?  Because  I  will  play 
always,  night  or  day,  for  what  one  will,  for  any 
long,  and  al — ways  fair,  monsieur." 

"You  outrageous  varlet!  Every  one  knows  you 
came  to  England  as  the  French  Ambassador's  bar- 
ber. What  man  of  fashion  will  listen  to  you?  Wh« 
will  believe  you?" 


6  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

"All  people,  monsieur.  Do  you  think  I  have  not 
calculate',  that  I  shall  make  a  failure  of  my  little 
enterprise?" 

"Bah!" 

"Will  monsieur  not  reseat  himself?"  M.  Beau- 
caire  made  a  low  bow.  "So.  We  must  not  be  too 
tire*  for  Lady  Melbourne's  rout.  Ha,  ha!  And 
you,  Jean,  Victor,  and  you  others,  retire;  go  in  the 
hallway.  Attend  at  the  entrance,  Francois.  So; 
now  we  shall  talk.  Monsieur,  I  wish  you  to  think 
very  cool.  Then  listen;  I  will  be  briefly.  It  is 
that  I  am  well  known  to  be  all,  entire'  hones'.  Gam- 
blist?  Ah,  yes;  true  and  mos'  profitable;  but  fair, 
al — ways  fair;  every  one  say  that.  Is  it  not  so? 
Think  of  it.  And — is  there  never  a  w'isper  come  to 
M.  le  Due  that  not  all  people  belief  him  to  play  al — 
ways  hones'?  Ha,  ha!  Did  it  almos'  be  said  to 
him  las'  year,  after  when  he  play'  with  Milor*  Tap- 
pin'ford  at  the  chocolate-house— 

"You  dirty  scandal-monger!"  the  Duke  burst  out. 
«T 'it j> 

"Monsieur,  monsieur!"  said  the  Frenchman.  "It 
is  a  poor  valor  to  insult  a  helpless  captor.  Can  he 
retort  upon  his  own  victim?  But  it  is  for  you  to 
think  of  what  I  say.  True,  I  am  not  reco'nize  on 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  7 

the  parade;  that  my  frien's  who  come  here  do  not 
present  me  to  their  ladies;  that  Meestaire  Nash  has 
rebofF  me  in  the  pomp-room;  still,  am  I  not  known 
for  being  hones'  and  fair  in  my  play,  and  will  I  not 
be  belief',  even  I,  when  I  lif  my  voice  and  charge 
you  aloud  with  what  is  already  w'isper'?  Think  of 
it!  You  are  a  noble,  and  there  will  be  some  hang- 
dogs who  might  not  fall  away  from  you.  Only  such 
would  be  lef  to  you.  Do  you  want  it  toF?  And 
you  can  keep  out  of  France,  monsieur?  I  have  lef 
his  service,  but  I  have  still  the  ear  of  M.  de  Mire- 
poix,  and  he  know'  I  never  lie.  Not  a  gentleman 
will  play  you  when  you  come  to  Paris." 

The  Englishman's  white  lip  showed  a  row  of  scar- 
let dots  upon  it.  "How  much  do  you  want?"  he 
said. 

The  room  rang  with  the  gay  laughter  of  Beaucaire. 
"I  hoi'  your  note'  for  seven-hunder'  pound'.  You 
can  have  them,  monsieur.  Why  does  a  such 
great  man  come  to  play  M.  Beaucaire?  Be- 
cause no  one  else  willin'  to  play  M.  le  Due — he 
cannot  pay.  Ha,  ha!  So  he  come'  to  good 
Monsieur  Beaucaire.  Money,  ha,  ha!  What  I 
want  with  money?" 

His  Grace  of  Winterset's  features  were  set  awry 


8  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

to  a  sinister  pattern.  He  sat  glaring  at  his  com- 
panion in  a  snarling  silence. 

"Money?  Pouf!"  snapped  the  little  gambler. 
"No,  no,  no!  It  is  that  M.  le  Due,  impoverish', 
somewhat  in  a  bad  odor  as  he  is,  yet  command,  the 
entree  an^-where — onless  I —  Ha,  ha!  Eh,  monsieur?" 

"Ha!    You  dare  think  to  force  me " 

M.  Beaucaire  twirled  the  tip  of  his  slender  mus- 
tache around  the  end  of  his  white  forefinger.  Then 
he  said:  "Monsieur  and  me  goin'  to  Lady  Mai- 
bourne's  ball  to-night — M.  le  Due  and  me!" 

The  Englishman  roared,  "Curse  your  impudence!" 

"Sit  quiet.     Oh,  yes,  that's  all;  we  goin'  together." 

"No!" 

"Certain.  I  make  all  my  little  plan'.  'Tis  all 
arrange'."  He  paused,  and  then  said  gravely,  "You 
goin'  present  me  to  Lady  Mary  Carlisle." 

The  other  laughed  in  utter  scorn.  "Lady  Mary 
Carlisle,  of  all  women  alive,  would  be  the  first  to 
prefer  the  devil  to  a  man  of  no  birth,  barber." 

"'Tis  all  arrange';  have  no  fear;  nobody  question 
monsieur's  guest.  You  goin'  take  me  to-night — 

"No!" 

"Yes.  And  after — then  /  have  the  entrfe.  Is  it 
much  I  ask?  This  one  little  favor,  and  I  never 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  9 

w'isper,  never  breathe  that — it  is  to  say,  I  am  al- 
ways forever  silent  of  monsieur's  misfortune." 

"You  have  the  entree!"  sneered  the  other.  "Go 
to  a  lackeys'  rout  and  dance  with  the  kitchen  maids. 
If  I  would,  I  could  not  present  you  to  Bath  society. 
I  should  have  cartels  from  the  fathers,  brothers,  and 
lovers  of  every  wench  and  madam  in  the  place,  even 
I.  You  would  be  thrust  from  Lady  Melbourne's 
door  five  minutes  after  you  entered  it." 

"No,  no,  no!" 

"Half  the  gentlemen  in  Bath  have  been  here  to 
play.  They  would  know  you,  wouldn't  they,  fool? 
You've  had  thousands  out  of  Bantison,  Rakell, 
Guilford,  and  Townbrake.  They  would  have  you 
lashed  by  the  grooms  as  your  ugly  deserts  are.  You 
to  speak  to  Lady  Mary  Carlisle!  'Od's  blood! 
You!  Also,  dolt,  she  would  know  you  if  you  es- 
caped the  others.  She  stood  within  a  yard  of  you 
when  Nash  expelled  you  the  pump-room." 

M.  Beaucaire  flushed  slightly.  "You  think  I 
did  not  see?"  he  asked. 

"Do  you  dream  that  because  Winterset  intro- 
duces a  low  fellow  he  will  be  tolerated — that  Bath 
will  receive  a  barber?" 

"I  have  the  distinction  to  call  monsieur's  atten- 


10  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

tkra,"  replied  the  young  man  gayly,  "I  have  re- 
nounce' that  profession." 

"Fool!" 

"I  am  now  a  man  of  honor!" 

'Taugh!" 

"A  man  of  the  parts,"  continued  the  young  French- 
man, "and  of  deportment;  is  it  not  so?  Have  you 
seen  me  of  a  fluster,  or  gross  ever,  or,  what  shah1  I 
say — bourgeois?  Shall  you  be  shame*  for  your 
guest'  manner?  No,  no!  And  my  appearance, 
is  it  of  the  people?  Clearly,  no.  Do  I  not  com- 
pare in  taste  of  apparel  with  your  yo'ng  English- 
man? Ha,  ha!  To  be  hope'.  Ha,  ha!  So  I  am 
goin'  talk  with  Lady  Mary  Carlisle." 

"Bah!"  The  Duke  made  a  savage  burlesque. 
'  'Lady  Mary  Carlisle,  may  I  assume  the  honor  of 
presenting  the  barber  of  the  Marquis  de  Mire- 
poix?'  So,  is  it?" 

"No,  monsieur,"  smiled  the  young  man.  "Quite 
not  so.  You  shall  have  nothing  to  worry  you,  noth- 
ing in  the  worP.  I  am  goin'  to  assassinate  my  poor 
mustachio — also  remove  this  horrible  black  peruke, 
and  emerge  in  my  own  hair.  Behol'!"  He  swept 
the  heavy,  curled  mass  from  his  head  as  he  spoke, 
vnd  his  hair,  coiled  under  the  great  wig,  fell  to  his 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  11 

shoulders,  and  sparkled  yellow  in  the  candle-light. 
He  tossed  his  head  to  shake  the  hair  back  from  his 
cheeks.  "When  it  is  dress',  I  am  transform';  no- 
body can  know  me;  you  shall  observe.  See  how 
little  I  ask  of  you,  how  very  little  bit.  No  one 
shall  reco'nize  k'M.  Beaucaire'  or  'Victor.'  Ha,  ha! 
'Tis  all  arrange';  you  have  nothing  to  fear.'* 

"Curse  you,"  said  the  Duke,  "do  you  think  I'm 
going  to  be  saddled  with  you  wherever  I  go  as  long 
as  you  choose?" 

"A  mistake.  No.  All  I  requi — All  I  beg — is 
this  one  evening.  'Tis  all  shall  be  necessary.  After, 
I  shall  not  need  monsieur." 

"Take  heed  to  yourself — after!"  vouchsafed  the 
Englishman  between  his  teeth. 

"Conquered!"  cried  M.  Beaucaire,  and  clapped 
bis  hands  gleefully.  "Conquered  for  the  night  5 
Aha,  it  is  riz'nable!  I  shall  meet  what  you  send 
— after.  One  cannot  hope  too  much  of  your  pa- 
tience. It  is  but  natural  you  should  attem'  a  little 
avengement  for  the  rascal  trap  I  was  such  a  wicked 
fellow  as  to  set  for  you.  I  shall  meet  some  strange 
frien's  of  yours  after  to-night;  not  so?  I  must  try 
to  be  not  too  much  frighten'."  He  looked  at  the 
Dub7  curiously.  "You  want  to  know  why  I  create 


12  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

this  tragedy,  why  I  am  so  unkind  as  to  entrap  mon- 
sieur?" 

His  Grace  of  Winterset  replied  with  a  chill  glance; 
a  pulse  in  the  nobleman's  cheek  beat  less  relent- 
lessly; his  eye  raged  not  so  bitterly;  the  steady  pur- 
ple of  his  own  color  was  returning;  his  voice  was 
less  hoarse;  he  was  regaining  his  habit.  :"Tis  ever 
the  manner  of  the  vulgar,"  he  observed,  "to  wish 
to  be  seen  with  people  of  fashion." 

"Oh,  no,  no,  no!"  The  Frenchman  laughed. 
"Tis  not  that.  Am  I  not  already  one  of  these  'men 
of  fashion'?  I  lack  only  the  reputation  of  birth. 
Monsieur  is  goin'  supply  that.  Ha,  ha!  I  shall 
be  noble  from  to-night.  'Victor,'  the  artis',  is  con- 
demn' to  death;  his  throat  shall  be  cut  with  his 
own  razor.  *M.  Beaucaire' — "  Here  the  young 
man  sprang  to  his  feet,  caught  up  the  black  wig, 
clapped  into  it  a  dice-box  from  the  table,  and  hurled 
it  violently  through  the  open  door.  ''  *M.  Beau- 
caire' shall  be  choke'  with  his  own  dice-box.  Who 
is  the  Phrenix  to  remain?  What  advantage  have  I 
not  over  other  men  of  rank  who  are  merely  born  to  itr 
I  may  choose  my  own.  No!  Choose  for  me,  mon- 
sieur. Shall  I  be  chevalier,  comte,  vicomte,  mar- 
quis, what?  None.  Out  of  compliment  to  mon- 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIKE  13 

sieur  can  I  wish  to  be  anything  he  is  not?  No, 
no!  I  shall  be  M.  le  Due,  M.  le  Due  de— de  Cha- 
teaurien.  Ha,  ha!  You  see?  You  are  my  con- 
frere:9 

M.  Beaucaire  trod  a  dainty  step  or  two,  waving 
his  hand  politely  to  the  Duke,  as  though  in  invita- 
tion to  join  the  celebration  of  his  rank.  The  Eng- 
lishman watched,  his  eye  still  and  harsh,  already 
gathering  in  craftiness.  Beaucaire  stopped  sud- 
denly. "But  how  I  forget  my  age!  I  am  twenty- 
three,"  he  said,  with  a  sigh.  "I  rejoice  too  much 
to  be  of  the  quality.  It  has  been  too  great  for  me, 
and  I  had  always  belief  myself  free  of  such  am- 
bition. I  thought  it  was  enough  to  behoP  the  opera 
without  wishing  to  sing;  but  no,  England  have 
teach'  me  I  have  those  vulgar  desire*.  Monsieur, 
I  am  goin'  tell  you  a  secret;  the  ladies  of  your  coun- 
try are  very  diff'runt  than  ours.  One  may  adore 
the  demoiselle,  one  must  worship  the  lady  of  Eng- 
land. Our  ladies  have  the — it  is  the  beauty  of 
youth;  yours  remain  comely  at  thirty.  Ours  are 
flowers,  yours  are  stars!  See,  I  betray  myself,  I 
am  so  poor  a  patriot.  And  there  is  one  among 
these  stars — ah,  yes,  there  is  one — the  poor  French- 
man has  observe*  from  his  humble  distance;  even 


14  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

there  he  could  bask  in  the  glowing!"  M.  Beaucaire 
turned  to  the  window,  and  looked  out  into  the  dark. 
He  did  not  see  the  lights  of  the  town.  When  he 
turned  again,  he  had  half  forgotten  his  prisoner; 
other  pictures  were  before  him. 

"Ah,  what  radiance!"  he  cried.  "Those  people 
up  over  the  sky,  they  want  to  show  they  wish  the 
earth  to  be  happy,  so  they  smile,  and  make  this  lady. 
Gold-haired,  an  angel  of  heaven,  and  yet  a  Diana 
of  the  chase!  I  see  her  fly  by  me  on  her  great 
horse  one  day;  she  touch'  his  mane  with  her  fingers. 
I  buy  that  clipping  from  the  groom.  I  have  it  here 
with  my  dear  brother's  picture.  Ah,  you!  Oh, 
yes,  you  laugh!  What  do  you  know!  'Twas  all 
I  could  get.  But  I  have  heard  of  the  endeavor  of 
M.  le  Due  to  recoup  his  fortunes.  This  alliance 
shall  fail.  It  is  not  the  way — that  heritage  shall  be 
safe'  from  him!  It  is  you  and  me,  monsieur!  You 
can  laugh!  The  war  is  open',  and  by  me!  There 
is  one  great  step  taken :  until  to-night  there  was  noth- 
ing for  you  to  ruin,  to-morrow  you  have  got  a  noble 
of  Prance — your  own  protege — to  besiege  and  sack. 
And  you  are  to  lose,  because  you  think  such  ruin 
easy,  and  because  you  understand  nothing — far 
less — of  divinity.  How  could  you  know?  You 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAEIE  15 

have  not  the  fiber;  the  heart  of  a  lady  is  a  blank  to 
you;  you  know  nothing  of  the  vibration.  There  are 
some  words  that  were  made  only  to  tell  of  Lady 
Mary,  for  her  alone — bellissima,  divine,  glvrieuse! 
Ah,  how  I  have  watch'  her!  It  is  sad  to  me  when 
I  see  her  surround'  by  your  yo'ng  captains,  your 
nobles,  your  rattles,  your  beaux — ha,  ha! — and  I 
mus'  hoi*  far  aloof.  It  is  sad  for  me — but  oh,  jus' 
to  watch  her  and  to  wonder!  Strange  it  is,  but  I 
have  almos'  cry  out  with  rapture  at  a  look  I  have 
see'  her  give  another  man,  so  beautiful  it  was,  so 
tender,  so  dazzling  of  the  eyes  and  so  mirthful  of 
the  lips.  Ah,  divine  coquetry!  A  look  for  another, 
ab-i-me!  for  many  others;  and  even  to  you,  one  day, 
a  rose,  while  I — I,  monsieur,  could  not  even  be  so 
blessed  as  to  be  the  groun'  beneath  her  little  shoe! 
But  to-nigkt,  monsieur — ha,  ha! — to-night,  mon- 
sieur, you  and  me,  two  princes,  M.  le  Due  de  Winter- 
set  and  M.  le  Due  de  Chateaurien — ha,  ha!  you  see? 
— we  are  goin'  arm-in-arm  to  that  ball,  and  I  am 
goin'  have  one  of  those  looks,  //  And  a  rose!  // 
It  is  time.  But  ten  minute',  monsieur.  I  make 
my  apology  to  keep  you  waitin'  so  long  while  I  go 
in  the  nex'  room  and  execute  my  poor  mustachio — ' 
that  will  be  my  only  murder  for  jus'  this  one  even- 


16  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

ing — and  inves'  myself  in  white  satin.  Ha,  ha!  I 
shall  be  very  gran',  monsieur.  Francois,  send  Louis 
to  me;  Victor,  to  order  two  chairs  for  monsieur  and 
me;  we  are  goin'  out  in  the  worl'  to-night!" 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  chairmen  swarmed  in  the  street  at  Lady 
Malbourne's  door,  where  the  joyous  vul- 
gar fought  with  muddled  footmen  and  tipsy 
link-boys  for  places  of  vantage  whence  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  quality  and  of  raiment  at  its  utmost. 
Dawn  was  in  the  east,  and  the  guests  were  depart- 
ing. Singly  or  in  pairs,  glittering  in  finery,  they 
came  mincing  down  the  steps,  the  ghost  of  the  night's 
smirk  fading  to  jadedness  as  they  sought  the  dark  re- 
cesses of  their  chairs.  From  within  sounded  the 
twang  of  fiddles  still  swinging  manfully  at  it,  and 
the  windows  were  bright  with  the  light  of  many 
candles.  When  the  door  was  flung  open  to  call  the 
chair  of  Lady  Mary  Carlisle,  there  was  an  eager 
pressure  of  the  throng  to  see. 

A  small,  fair  gentleman  in  white  satin  came  out 
upon  the  steps,  turned  and  bowed  before  a  lady 
who  appeared  in  the  doorway,  a  lady  whose  royal 

loveliness  was  given  to  view  for  a  moment  in  that 

17 


18  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

glowing  frame.  The  crowd  sent  up  a  hearty  Eng- 
lish cheer  for  the  Beauty  of  Bath. 

The  gentleman  smiled  upon  them  delightedly. 
"What  enchanting  people!"  he  cried.  "Why  did 
I  not  know,  so  I  might  have  shout'  with  them?" 
The  lady  noticed  the  people  not  at  all;  whereat, 
being  pleased,  the  people  cheered  again.  The  gen- 
tleman offered  her  his  hand;  she  made  a  slow  cour- 
tesy; placed  the  tips  of  her  fingers  upon  his  own. 
"I  am  honored,  M.  de  Chateaurien,"  she  said. 

"No,  no!"  he  cried  earnestly.  "BehoF  a  poor 
Frenchman  whom  emperors  should  envy."  Then 
reverently  and  with  the  pride  of  his  gallant  office 
vibrant  in  every  line  of  his  light  figure,  invested 
in  white  satin  and  very  grand,  as  he  had  prophesied, 
M.  le  Due  de  Chateaurien  handed  Lady  Mary  Car- 
lisle down  the  steps,  an  achievement  which  had 
figured  in  the  ambitions  of  seven  other  gentlemen 
during  the  evening. 

"Am  I  to  be  lef  in  such  onhappiness?"  he 
said  in  a  low  voice.  "That  rose  I  have  beg*  for  so 
long " 

"Never!"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"Ah,  I  do  not  deserve  it,  I  know  so  well! 
But " 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  19 

"Never!" 

"It  is  the  greatness  of  my  on  worthiness  that  alone 
can  claim  your  charity;  let  your  kin'  heart  give  this 
little  red  rose,  this  great  alms,  to  the  poor  beggar." 

"Never!" 

She  was  seated  in  the  chair.  "Ah,  give  the  rose," 
he  whispered.  Her  beauty  shone  dazzlingly  on 
him  out  of  the  dimness. 

"Never!"  she  flashed  defiantly  as  she  was  closed 
in.  "Never!" 

"Ah!" 

"Never!" 

The  rose  fell  at  his  feet. 

"A  rose  lasts  till  morning,"  said  a  voice  behind 
him. 

Turning,  M.  de  Chateaurien  looked  beamingly 
upon  the  face  of  the  Duke  of  Winterset. 

"'Tis  already  the  daylight,"  he  replied,  pointing 
to  the  east.  "Monsieur,  was  it  not  enough  honor 
for  you  to  han'  out  madame,  the  aunt  of  Lady  Mary? 
Lady  Rellerton  retain'  much  trace  of  beauty.  'Tis 
strange  you  did  not  appear  more  happy." 

"The  rose  is  of  an  unlucky  color,  I  think,"  ob- 
served the  Duke. 


20  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

"The  color  of  a  blush,  my  brother." 

"Unlucky,  I  still  maintain,"  said  the  other  calmly. 

"The  color  of  the  veins  of  a  Frenchman.  Ha, 
ha!"  cried  the  young  man.  "What  price  would  be 
too  high?  A  rose  is  a  rose!  A  good-night,  my 
brother,  a  good-night.  I  wish  you  dreams  of  roses, 
red  roses,  only  beautiful  red,  red  roses!" 

"Stay!  Did  you  see  the  look  she  gave  these 
street  folk  when  they  shouted  for  her?  And  how 
are  you  higher  than  they,  when  she  knows?  As 
high  as  yonder  horse-boy!" 

"Red  roses,  my  brother,  only  roses.  I  wish  you 
dreams  of  red,  red  roses!" 


CHAPTER  III 

'FTT^WAS  well  agreed  by  the  fashion  of  Bath 
that  M.  le  Due  de  Chateaurien  was  a  per- 

"^"  son  of  sensibility  and  haul  ton;  that  his 
retinue  and  equipage  surpassed  in  elegance;  that 
his  person  was  exquisite,  his  manner  engaging.  In 
the  company  of  gentlemen  his  ease  was  slightly 
tinged  with  graciousness  (his  single  equal  in  Bath 
being  his  Grace  of  Winterset);  but  it  was  remarked 
that  when  he  bowed  over  a  lady's  hand,  his  air  be- 
spoke only  a  gay  and  tender  reverence. 

He  was  the  idol  of  the  dowagers  within  a  week 
after  his  appearance;  matrons  warmed  to  him; 
young  belles  looked  sweetly  on  him,  while  the  gen- 
tlemen were  won  to  admiration  or  envy.  He  was 
of  prodigious  wealth:  old  Mr.  Bicksit,  who  dared 
not,  for  his  fame's  sake,  fail  to  have  seen  all  things, 
had  visited  Chateaurien  under  the  present  Duke's 
father,  and  descanted  to  the  curious  upon  its  gran- 
deurs. The  young  noble  had  one  fault,  he  was  so 

poor  a  gambler.     He  cared  nothing  for  the  hazards 

21 


22  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

of  a  die  or  the  turn  of  a  card.  Gayly  admitting 
that  he  had  been  born  with  no  spirit  of  adventure  in 
him,  he  was  sure,  he  declared,  that  he  failed  of  much 
happiness  by  his  lack  of  taste  in  such  matters. 

But  he  was  not  long  wanting  the  occasion  to  prove 
his  taste  in  the  matter  of  handling  a  weapon.  A 
certain  led-captain,  Rohrer  by  name,  notorious, 
amongst  other  things,  for  bearing  a  dexterous  and 
bloodthirsty  blade,  came  to  Bath  post-haste,  one 
night,  and  jostled  heartily  against  him  in  the  pump- 
room  on  the  following  morning.  M.  de  Chateau- 
rien  bowed,  and  turned  aside  without  offense,  con- 
tinuing a  conversation  with  some  gentlemen  near 
by.  Captain  Rohrer  jostled  against  him  a  second 
time.  M.  de  Chateaurien  looked  him  in  the  eye, 
and  apologized  pleasantly  for  being  so  much  in  the 
way.  Thereupon  Rohrer  procured  an  introduction 
to  him,  and  made  some  observations  derogatory 
to  the  valor  and  virtue  of  the  French. 

There  was  current  a  curious  piece  of  gossip  of 
the  French  court:  a  prince  of  the  blood  royal,  grand- 
son of  the  late  Regent  and  second  in  the  line  of  suc- 
cession to  the  throne  of  France,  had  rebelled  against 
the  authority  of  Louis  XV.,  who  had  commanded 
him  to  marry  the  Princess  Henriette,  cousin  to  both 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  23 

of  them.  The  princess  was  reported  to  be  openly 
devoted  to  the  cousin  who  refused  to  accept  her 
hand  at  the  bidding  of  the  king;  and,  as  rumor  ran, 
the  prince's  caprice  elected  in  preference  the  dis- 
cipline of  Vincennes,  to  which  retirement  the  furious 
king  had  consigned  him.  The  story  was  the  staple 
gossip  of  all  polite  Europe;  and  Captain  Rohrer, 
having  in  his  mind  a  purpose  to  make  use  of  it  in 
leading  up  to  a  statement  that  should  be  general 
to  the  damage  of  all  Frenchwomen,  and  which  a 
Frenchman  might  not  pass  over  as  he  might  a  jog 
of  the  elbow,  repeated  it  with  garbled  truths  to  make 
a  scandal  of  a  story  which  bore  none  on  a  plain  rela- 
tion. 

He  did  not  reach  his  deduction.  M.  de  Cha- 
teaurien,  breaking  into  his  narrative,  addressed  him 
very  quietly.  "Monsieur,"  he  said,  "none  but 
swine  deny  the  nobleness  of  that  good  and  gentle 
lady,  Mademoiselle  la  Princesse  de  Bourbon-Conti. 
Every  Frenchman  know'  that  her  cousin  is  a  bad 
rebel  and  ingrate,  who  had  only  honor  and  rispec' 
for  her,  but  was  so  wilful  he  could  not  let  even  the 
king  say,  'You  shall  marry  here,  you  shall  marry 
there.'  My  frien's,"  the  young  man  turned  to  the 
Others,  "may  I  ask  you  to  close  roun'  in  a  circle 


24  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

for  one  moment?  It  is  clearly  shown  that  the  Duke 
of  Orleans  is  a  scurvy  fellow,  but  not — "  he  wheeled 
about  and  touched  Captain  Rohrer  on  the  brow 
with  the  back  of  his  gloved  hand — "but  not  so 
scurvy  as  thou,  thou  swine  of  the  gutter!" 

Two  hours  later,  with  perfect  ease,  he  ran  Cap- 
tain Rohrer  through  the  left  shoulder — after  which 
he  sent  a  basket  of  red  roses  to  the  Duke  of  Winter- 
set.  In  a  few  days  he  had  another  captain  to  fight. 
This  was  a  ruffling  buck  who  had  the  astounding 
indiscretion  to  proclaim  M.  de  Chateaurien  an  im- 
postor. There  was  no  Chateaurien,  he  swore.  The 
Frenchman  laughed  in  his  face,  and,  at  twilight 
of  the  same  day,  pinked  him  carefully  through  the 
right  shoulder.  It  was  not  that  he  could  not  put 
aside  the  insult  to  himself,  he  declared  to  Mr.  Moly- 
neux,  his  second,  and  the  few  witnesses,  as  he  handed 
his  wet  sword  to  his  lackey — one  of  his  station 
could  not  be  insulted  by  a  doubt  of  that  station- 
but  he  fought  in  the  quarrel  of  his  friend  Winterset< 
This  rascal  had  asserted  that  M.  le  Due  had  intro- 
duced an  impostor.  Could  he  overlook  the  insult 
to  a  friend,  one  to  whom  he  owed  his  kind  recep- 
tion in  Bath?  Then,  bending  over  his  fallen  ad- 
versary, he  whispered:  "Naughty  man,  tell  your 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  25 

master  find  some  better  quarrel  for  the  nex'  he  sen' 
agains'  me." 

The  conduct  of  M.  de  Chateaurien  was  pronounced 
admirable. 

There  was  no  surprise  when  the  young  foreigner 
fell  naturally  into  the  long  train  of  followers  of  the 
beautiful  Lady  Mary  Carlisle,  nor  was  there  great 
astonishment  that  he  should  obtain  marked  favor 
in  her  eyes,  shown  so  plainly  that  my  Lord  Town- 
brake,  Sir  Hugh  Guilford,  and  the  rich  Squire  Ban- 
tison,  all  of  whom  had  followed  her  through  three 
seasons,  swore  with  rage,  and  his  Grace  of  Winter- 
set  stalked  from  her  aunt's  house  with  black  brows. 

Meeting  the  Duke  there  on  the  evening  after  his 
second  encounter,  de  Chateaurien  smiled  upon  him 
brilliantly.  "It  was  badly  done;  oh,  so  badly!" 
he  whispered.  "Can  you  afford  to  have  me  strip' 
of  my  mask  by  any  but  yourself?  You,  who  in- 
troduce' me?  They  will  say  there  is  some  bad 
scandal  that  I  could  force  you  to  be  my  god-father. 
You  mus'  get  the  courage  yourself." 

"I  told  you  a  rose  had  a  short  life,"  was  the 
answer. 

"Oh,  those  roses!  'Tis  the  very  greates'  rizzon 
to  gather  each  day  a  fresh  one."  He  took  a  red 


26  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

bud  from  his  breast  for  an  instant,  and  touched 
it  to  his  lips. 

"M.  de  Chateaurien !"  It  was  Lady  Mary's 
voice;  she  stood  at  a  table  where  a  vacant  place  had 
been  left  beside  her.  "M.  de  Chateaurien,  we  have 
been  waiting  very  long  for  you." 

The  Duke  saw  the  look  she  did  not  know  she 
gave  the  Frenchman,  and  he  lost  countenance  for 
a  moment. 

"We  approach  a  climax,  eh,  monsieur?"  said  M. 
de  Chateaurien. 


I 


CHAPTER  IV 

iTHIHERE  fell  a  clear  September  night,  when 
the  moon  was  radiant  over  town  and  coun- 
try, over  cobbled  streets  and  winding  roads. 
From  the  fields  the  mists  rose  slowly,  and  the  air 
was  mild  and  fragrant,  while  distances  were  white 
and  full  of  mystery.  All  of  Bath  that  pretended  to 
fashion  or  condition  was  present  that  evening  at  a 
fete  at  the  house  of  a  country  gentleman  of  the  neigh- 
borhood. When  the  stately  junket  was  concluded, 
it  was  the  pleasure  of  M.  de  Chateaurien  to  form 
one  of  the  escort  of  Lady  Mary's  carriage  for  the 
return.  As  they  took  the  road,  Sir  Hugh  Guilford 
and  Mr.  Bantison,  engaging  in  indistinct  but  vigor- 
ous remonstrance  with  Mr.  Molyneux  over  some 
matter,  fell  fifty  or  more  paces  behind,  where  they 
continued  to  ride,  keeping  up  their  argument.  Half 
a  dozen  other  gallants  rode  in  advance,  muttering 
among  themselves,  or  attended  laxly  upon  Lady 
Mary's  aunt  on  the  other  side  of  the  coach,  while 

the  happy  Frenchman  was  permitted  to  ride  close 

27 


28  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAffiE 

to  that  adorable  window  which  framed  the  fairest 
face  in  England. 

He  sang  for  her  a  little  French  song,  a  song  of 
the  voyageur  who  dreamed  of  home.  The  lady, 
listening,  looking  up  at  the  bright  moon,  felt  a  warm 
drop  upon  her  cheek,  and  he  saw  the  tears  sparkling 
upon  her  lashes. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  whispered  then,  "I,  too,  have 
been  a  wanderer,  but  my  dreams  were  not  of  France; 
no,  I  do  not  dream  of  that  home,  of  that  dear  coun- 
try. It  is  of  a  dearer  country,  a  dream  country — 
a  country  of  gold  and  snow,"  he  cried  softly,  looking 
at  her  white  brow  and  the  fair,  lightly  powdered 
hair  above  it.  "Gold  and  snow,  and  the  blue  sky 
of  a  lady's  eyes!" 

"I  had  thought  the  ladies  of  France  were  dark, 
sir." 

"Cruel !  It  is  that  she  will  not  understan' !  Have 
I  speak  of  the  ladies  of  France?  No,  no,  no!  It 
is  of  the  faires'  country;  yes,  'tis  a  province  of  heaven, 
mademoiselle.  Do  I  not  renounce  my  allegiance  to 
France?  Oh,  yes!  I  am  subjec' — no,  content  to 
be  slave — in  the  Ian'  of  the  blue  sky,  the  gold,  and 
the  snow." 

"A  very  pretty  figure,"  answered  Lady  Mary. 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIKE  29 

her  eyes  downcast.  "But  dees  it  not  hint  a  notable 
experience  in  the  making  of  such  speeches?*' 

"Tormentress!  No.  It  prove'  only  the  inspira- 
tion it  is  to  know  you." 

"We  English  ladies  hear  plenty  of  the  like,  sir; 
and  we  even  grow  brilliant  enough  to  detect  the  as- 
surance that  lies  beneath  the  courtesies  of  our  own 
gallants." 

"Merci!  I  should  believe  so!"  ejaculated  M. 
de  Chateaurien;  but  he  smothered  the  words  upon 
his  lips. 

Her  eyes  were  not  lifted.  She  went  on:  "We 
come,  in  time,  to  believe  that  true  feeling  comes 
faltering  forth,  not  glibly;  that  smoothness  betokens 
the  adept  in  the  art,  sir,  rather  than  your  true— 
your  true — "  She  was  herself  faltering;  more, 
blushing  deeply,  and  halting  to  a  full  stop  in  terror 
of  a  word.  There  was  a  silence. 

"Your — true — lover/'  he  said  huskily.  When 
he  had  said  that  word  both  trembled.  She  turned 
half  way  into  the  darkness  of  the  coach. 

"I  know  what  make'  you  to  doubt  me,"  he  said, 
faltering  himself,  though  it  was  not  his  art  that 
prompted  him.  "They  have  tol'  you  the  French  do 
nothing  al — ways  but  make  love,  is  ?t  not  so?  Yes, 


30  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

you  think  I  am  like  that.  You  think  I  am  like  that 
now!" 

She  made  no  sign. 

"I  suppose,"  he  sighed,  "I  am  unriz'nable;  I 
would  have  the  snow  not  so  col' — for  jus'  me." 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Turn  to  me,"  he  said. 

The  fragrance  of  the  fields  came  to  them,  and 
from  the  distance  the  faint,  clear  note  of  a  hunting- 
horn. 

"Turn  to  me." 

The  lovely  head  was  bent  very  low.  Her  little 
gloved  hand  lay  upon  the  narrow  window  ledge. 
He  laid  his  own  gently  upon  it.  The  two  hands 
were  shaking  like  twin  leaves  in  the  breeze.  Hers 
was  not  drawn  away.  After  a  pause,  neither  knew 
how  long,  he  felt  the  warm  fingers  turn  and  clasp 
themselves  tremulously  about  his  own.  At  last 
she  looked  up  bravely  and  met  his  eyes.  The  horn 
was  wound  again — nearer. 

"All  the  cold  was  gone  from  the  snows — long 
ago,"  she  said. 

"My  beautiful!"  he  whispered;  it  was  all  he  could 
say.  "My  beautiful!"  But  she  clutched  his  arm, 
startled. 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  31 

"'Ware  the  road!"  A  wild  halloo  sounded  ahead. 
The  horn  wound  loudly.  '"Ware  the  road!"  There 
sprang  up  out  of  the  night  a  flying  thunder  of  hoof- 
beats.  The  gentlemen  riding  idly  in  front  of  the 
coach  scattered  to  the  hedge-sides;  and,  with  drawn 
swords  flashing  in  the  moon,  a  party  of  horsemen 
charged  down  the  highway,  their  cries  blasting  the 
night. 

"Barber!  Kill  the  barber !"  they  screamed.  "Bar- 
ber! Kill  the  barber!" 

Beaucaire  had  but  time  to  draw  his  sword  when 
they  were  upon  him. 

"A  moil"  his  voice  rang  out  clearly  as  he  rose 
in  his  stirrups.  "A  moi,  Francois,  Louis,  Berquin! 
A  moi,  Francois!" 

The  cavaliers  came  straight  at  him.  He  parried 
the  thrust  of  the  first,  but  the  shock  of  collision 
hurled  his  horse  against  the  side  of  the  coach. 

"Sacred  swine!"  he  cried  bitterly.  "To  endanger 
a  lady,  to  make  this  brawl  in  a  lady's  presence! 
Drive  on!"  he  shouted. 

"No!"  cried  Lady  Mary. 

The  Frenchman's  assailants  were  masked,  but 
they  were  not  highwaymen.  "Barber!  Barber!"  they 
shouted  hoarsely,  and  closed  in  on  him  in  a  circle. 


32  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

"See  how  he  use  his  steel!"  laughed  M.  Beau- 
caire,  as  his  point  passed  through  a  tawdry  waist- 
coat. For  a  moment  he  cut  through  the  ring  and 
cleared  a  space  about  him,  and  Lady  Mary  saw  his 
face  shining  in  the  moonlight.  "Canaille!"  he 
hissed,  as  his  horse  sank  beneath  him;  and,  though 
guarding  his  head  from  the  rain  of  blows  from 
above,  he  managed  to  drag  headlong  from  his  saddle 
the  man  who  had  hamstrung  the  poor  brute. 
The  fellow  came  suddenly  to  the  ground,  and  lay 
there. 

"Is  it  not  a  compliment,'*  said  a  heavy  voice, 
"to  bring  six  large  men  to  subdue  monsieur?" 

"Oh,  you  are  there,  my  frien'!  In  the  rear — a 
a  little  in  the  rear,  I  think.  Ha,  ha!" 

The  Frenchman's  play  with  his  weapon  was  a 
revelation  of  skill,  the  more  extraordinary  as  he 
held  in  his  hand  only  a  light  dress  sword.  But  the 
ring  closed  about  him,  and  his  keen  defense  could 
not  avail  him  for  more  than  a  few  moments.  Lady 
Mary's  outriders,  the  gallants  of  her  escort,  rode 
up  close  to  the  coach  and  encircled  it,  not  inter- 
fering. 

"Sir  Hugh  Guilford!"  cried  Lady  Mary  wildly, 
"if  you  will  not  help  him,  give  me  your  sword!" 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  33 

She  would  have  leaped  to  the  ground,  but  Sir  Hugh 
held  the  door. 

"Sit  quiet,  madam,"  he  said  to  her;  then,  to  the 
man  on  the  box,  "Drive  on." 

"If  he  does,  I'll  kill  him!"  she  said  fiercely.  "Ah, 
what  cowards!  Will  you  see  the  Duke  murdered?" 

"The  Duke!"  laughed  Guilford.  "They  will  not 
kill  him,  unless — be  easy,  dear  madam,  'twill  be 
explained.  Gad's  life!"  he  muttered  to  Molyneux, 
"'Twere  time  the  varlet  had  his  lashing!  D'ye 
hear  her?" 

"Barber  or  no  barber,"  answered  Molyneux, 
"I  wish  I  had  warned  him.  He  fights  as  few 
gentlemen  could.  Ah — ah!  Look  at  that!  'Tis 
a  shame!" 

On  foot,  his  hat  gone,  his  white  coat  sadly  rent 
and  gashed,  flecked,  too,  with  red,  M.  Beaucaire, 
wary,  alert,  brilliant,  seemed  to  transform  himself 
into  a  dozen  fencing-masters;  and,  though  his  skill 
appeared  to  lie  in  delicacy  and  quickness,  his  play 
being  continually  with  the  point,  sheer  strength 
failed  to  beat  him  down.  The  young  man  was 
laughing  like  a  child. 

"Believe  me,"  said  Molyneux,  "he's  no  barber! 
No,  and  never  was!" 


34  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAffiE 

For  a  moment  there  was  even  a  chance  that 
M.  Beaucaire  might  have  the  best  of  it.  Two  of 
his  adversaries  were  prostrate,  more  than  one  were 
groaning,  and  the  indomitable  Frenchman  had 
actually  almost  beat  off  the  ruffians,  when,  by  a 
trick,  he  was  overcome.  One  of  them,  dismounting, 
ran  in  suddenly  from  behind,  and  seized  his  blade 
in  a  thick  leather  gauntlet.  Before  Beaucaire 
could  disengage  the  weapon,  two  others  threw 
themselves  from  their  horses  and  hurled  him  to 
the  earth.  "A  moi!  A  moi,  Francois!"  he  cried 
as  he  went  down,  his  sword  in  fragments,  but  his 
voice  unbroken  and  clear. 

"Shame!"  muttered  one  or  two  of  the  gentle- 
men about  the  coach. 

"'Twas  dastardly  to  take  him  so,"  said  Moly- 
neux.  "Whatever  his  deservings,  I'm  nigh  of  a 
mind  to  offer  him  a  rescue  in  the  Duke's 
face." 

"Truss  him  up,  lads,"  said  the  heavy  voice. 
"Clear  the  way  in  front  of  the  coach.  There  sit 
those  whom  we  avenge  upon  a  presumptuous 
lackey.  Now,  Whiffen,  you  have  a  fair  audience, 
lay  on  and  baste  him." 

Two  men  began  to  drag  M.  Beaucaire  toward 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIKE  35 

a  great  oak  by  the  roadside.     Another  took  from 
his  saddle  a  heavy  whip  with  three  thongs. 

"A  moi,  Francois!" 

There  was  borne  on  the  breeze  an  answer — 
"Monseigneur!  Monseigneur!"  The  cry  grew  louder 
suddenly.  The  clatter  of  hoofs  urged  to  an  anguish 
of  speed  sounded  on  the  night.  M.  Beaucaire's 
servants  had  lagged  sorely  behind,  but  they  made 
up  for  it  now.  Almost  before  the  noise  of  their 
own  steeds  they  came  riding  down  the  moonlit 
aisle  between  the  mists.  Chosen  men,  these  servants 
of  Beaucaire,  and  like  a  thunderbolt  they  fell  upon 
the  astounded  cavaliers. 

"Chateaurien !  Chateaurien!"  they  shouted,  and 
smote  so  swiftly  that,  through  lack  of  time,  they 
showed  no  proper  judgment,  discriminating  nothing 
between  non-combatants  and  their  master's  foes. 
They  charged  first  into  the  group  about  M. 
Beaucaire,  and  broke  and  routed  it  utterly. 
Two  of  them  leaped  to  the  young  man's 
side,  while  the  other  four,  swerving,  scarce 
losing  the  momentum  of  then*  onset,  bore  on 
upon  the  gentlemen  near  the  coach,  who  went 
down  beneath  the  fierceness  of  the  onslaught, 
cursing  manfully. 


36  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

"Our  just  deserts/'  said  Mr.  Molyneux,  his 
mouth  full  of  dust  and  philosophy. 

Sir  Hugh  Guilford's  horse  fell  with  him,  being 
literally  ridden  over,  and  the  baronet's  leg  was 
pinned  under  the  saddle.  In  less  than  ten  minutes 
from  the  first  attack  on  M.  Beaucaire,  the  attack- 
ing party  had  fled  in  disorder,  and  the  patrician 
non-combatants,  choking  with  expletives,  con- 
sumed with  wrath,  were  prisoners,  disarmed  by  the 
Frenchman's  lackeys. 

Guilford's  discomfiture  had  freed  the  doors  of  the 
coach;  so  it  was  that  when  M.  Beaucaire,  struggling 
to  rise,  assisted  by  his  servants,  threw  out  one  hand 
to  balance  himself,  he  found  it  seized  between  two 
small,  cold  palms,  and  he  looked  into  two  warm, 
dilating  eyes,  that  were  doubly  beautiful  because 
of  the  fright  and  rage  that  found  room  in  them,  too. 

M.  le  Due  Chateaurien  sprang  to  his  feet  without 
the  aid  of  his  lackeys,  and  bowed  low  before  Lady 
Mary. 

"I  make  ten  thousan'  apology  to  be  the  cause 
of  a  such  melee  in  your  presence,"  he  said;  and  then, 
turning  to  Francois,  he  spoke  in  French:  "Ah,  thou 
scoundrel!  A  little,  and  it  had  been  too  late." 

Francois  knelt  in  the  dust  before  him.    "Pardon!" 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  37 

he  said.  "Monseigneur  commanded  us  to  follow 
far  in  the  rear,  to  remain  unobserved.  The  wind 
malignantly  blew  against  monseigneur 's  voice." 

"See  what  it  might  have  cost,  my  children," 
said  his  master,  pointing  to  the  ropes  with  which 
they  would  have  bound  him  and  to  the  whip  lying 
beside  them.  A  shudder  passed  over  the  lackey's 
frame;  the  utter  horror  in  his  face  echoed  in  the 
eyes  of  his  fellows. 

"Oh,  monseigneur!"  Francois  sprang  back,  and 
tossed  his  t  nns  to  heaven. 

"But  it  dH  not  happen,"  said  M.  Beaucaire. 

"It  could  n>t!"  exclaimed  Francois. 

"No.  And  you  did  very  well,  my  children— 
the  young  man  smiled  benevolently— "very  well. 
And  now,"  he  continued,  turning  to  Lady  Mary 
and  speaking  ia  English,  "let  me  be  asking  of  our 
gallants  yonder  wDa^  make'  them  to  be  in  cabal 
with  highwaymen.  One  should  come  to  a  polite 
understanding  with  them>  y°u  think?  Not  so?" 

He  bowed,  offering  ?lis  hand  to  conduct  her  to 
the  coach,  where  MJ^yneux  an(^  n^  companions, 
having  drawn  Sir  Hi^  from  wde*  his  horse»  were 
engaged  in  reviving  an(*  reassuring  Lady  Rellerton, 
who  had  fainted.  But  Lady  MalT  stayed  Beaucaire 


38  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

with  a  gesture,  and  the  two  stood  where  they 
were. 

"Monseigneur'"  she  said,  with  a  note  of  raillery 
in  her  voice,  but  raillery  so  tender  that  he  started 
with  happiness.  His  movement  brought  him  a  hot 
spasm  of  pain,  and  he  clapped  his  hand  to  a  red 
stain  on  his  waistcoat. 

<cYou  are  hurt!" 

"It  is  nothing,"  smiled  M.  Beaucaire.  Then, 
that  she  might  not  see  the  stain  spreading,  he  held 
his  handkerchief  over  the  spot.  "I  am  a  little— 
but  jus'  a  trifling — bruise';  'tis  all."  / 

"You  shall  ride  hi  the  tx>ach,"  sKe  whispered. 
"Will  you  be  pleased,  M.  de  Chatea^rien?" 

"Ah,  my  beautiful!"  She  seemecf  to  wave  before 
him  like  a  shining  mist.  "I  wish  that  ride  might 
las'  for  ai— ways!  Can  you  sa;  tnat  mademoi- 
selle?" 

"Monseigneur,"  she  cried  in  a  passion  of  admira- 
tion, "I  would  what  you  wouh}  have  be,  should  be. 
What  do  you  not  deserve?  You  ^^  the  bravest 
man  in  the  world!" 

"Ha,  ha!  I  am  jus'  a  poor  Frenchman '» 

"Would  that  a  few  Englishmen  had  shown  them- 
selves as  'poor'  to-night.  The  vile  Awards,  not  to 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  39 

help  you!"  With  that,  suddenly  possessed  by  her 
anger,  she  swept  away  from  him  to  the  coach. 

Sir  Hugh,  groaning  loudly,  was  being  assisted 
into  the  vehidk . 

"My  little  poltroons,"  she  said,  "what  are  you 
doing  with  your  fellow-craven,  Sir  Hugh  Guilford, 
there?" 

"Madam,"  replied  Molyneux  humbly,  "Sir  Hugh's 
leg  is  broken.  Lady  Rellerton  graciously  permits 
him  to  be  taken  in." 

"/  do  not  permit  it!  M.  de  Chateaurien  rides 
with  us." 

"But '* 

"Sir!  Leaw  the  wretch  to  groan  by  the  road- 
side," she  cried  fiercely,  "'which  plight  I  would  were 
that  of  all  of  you-  But  there  will  be  a  pretty  story 
for  the  gossips  o-morrow!  And  I  could  almost 
find  pity  for  you  when  I  think  of  the  wits  when  you 
return  to  town.  Fine  gentlemen  you;  hardy 
bravoes,  by  heaven!  to  ^eave  one  man  to  mee* 
a  troop  of  horse  sir£le-kanded,  while  you  huddle 
in  shelter  until  yoj  are  overthrown  and  disarmed 
by  servants!  Oh>  ^Q  w^s-  Heaven  save  you 
from  the  wits!" 

"Madam.** 


40  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

"A&iress  me  no  more!  M.  de  Chateaurien, 
Lady  Rellerton  and  I  will  greatly  esteem  the  honor 
of  y@ur  company.  Will  you  come?" 

She  stepped  quickly  into  the  coach,  and  was 
gathering  her  skirts  to  make  room  for  the  French- 
man, when  a  heavy  voice  spoke  from  the  shadows 
of  the  tree  by  the  wayside. 

"Lady  Mary  Carlisle  will,  no  doubt,  listen  to  a 
word  of  counsel  on  this  point." 

The  Duke  of  Winterset  rode  out  into  the  moon- 
light, composedly  untieing  a  mask  from  about  his 
head.  He  had  not  shared  the  flight  of  b">  followers, 
but  had  retired  into  the  shade  of  the  oak,  whence 
he  BOW  made  his  presence  known  wi  h  the  utmost 
coolness. 

"Gracious  heavens,  'tis  Winterset!"  exclaimed 
Lady  Rellerton. 

"Turned  highwayman  and  cutthroat,"  cried  Lady 
Mary. 

"No,  no,"  laughed  M.  Iteaucaire,  somewhat 
unsteadily,  as  he  stood,  swaying  a  little,  with  one 
hand  on  the  coach-door,  the  -other  pressed  hard 
on  his  side,  "he  only  oversee';  he  ^  jug'  a  little  bash- 
ful, sometime'.  He  is  a  great  ^nan>  but  he  don' 
want  att  the  glory!" 

' 


MONSIEUR  BEATJCAIRE  41 

"Barber,"  replied  the  Duke,  "I  must  tell  you 
that  I  gladly  descend  to  bandy  words  with  you; 
your  monstrous  impudence  is  a  claim  to  rank  I 
cannot  ignore.  But  a  lackey  who  has  himself 
followed  by  six  other  lackeys " 

"Ha,  ha!  Has  not  M.  le  Due  been  busy  all  this 
evening  to  justify  me?  And  I  think  mine  mus*  be 
the  bes'  six.  Ha,  ha!  You  think?" 

"M.  de  Chateaurien,"  said  Lady  Mary,  "we  are 
waiting  for  you." 

"Pardon,"  he  replied.  "He  has  something  to 
say;  maybe  it  is  bes'  if  you  hear  it  now." 

"I  wish  to  hear  nothing  from  him — ever!" 

"My  faith,  madam,"  cried  the  Duke,  "this  saucy 
fellow  has  paid  you  the  last  insult!  He  is  so  sure 
of  you  he  does  not  fear  you  will  believe  the  truth. 
When  all  is  told,  if  you  do  not  agree  he  deserved 
the  lashing  we  planned  to 

"I'll  hear  no  more!" 

"You  will  bitterly  repent  it,  madam.  For  your 
own  sake  I  entreat — — " 

"And  I  also,"  broke  in  M.  Beaucaire.  "Permit 
me,  mademoiselle;  let  him  speak." 

"Then  let  him  be  brief,"  said  Lady  Mary,  "for 
I  am  earnest  to  be  quit  of  him.  His  explanation  of 


42  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

an  attack  on  my  friend  and  on  my  carriage  should 
be  made  to  my  brother." 

"Alas  that  he  was  not  here,"  said  the  Duke,  "to 
aid  me!  Madam,  was  your  carriage  threatened?  I 
have  endeavored  only  to  expunge  a  debt  I  owed 
to  Bath  and  to  avenge  an  insult  offered  to  yourself 
through— 

"Sir,  sir,  my  patience  will  bear  little  more!" 

"A  thousan'  apology,"  said  M.  Beaucaire.  "You 
will  listen,  I  only  beg,  Lady  Mary?" 

She  made  an  angry  gesture  of  assent. 

"Madam,  I  will  be  brief  as  I  may.  Two  months 
ago  there  came  to  Bath  a  French  gambler  calling 
himself  Beaucaire,  a  desperate  fellow  with  the  cards 
or  dice,  and  all  the  men  of  fashion  went  to  play  at 
his  lodging,  where  he  won  considerable  sums.  He 
was  small,  wore  a  black  wig  and  mustachio.  He 
had  the  insolence  to  show  himself  everywhere  until 
the  Master  of  Ceremonies  rebuffed  him  in  the  pump- 
room,  as  you  know,  and  after  that  he  forebore  his 
visits  to  the  rooms.  Mr.  Nash  explained  (and 
was  confirmed,  madam,  by  indubitable  information) 
that  this  Beaucaire  was  a  man  of  unspeakable,  vile, 
low  birth,  being,  in  fact,  no  other  than  a  lackey  of 
the  French  king's  ambassador,  Victor  by  name,  de 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  43 

Mirepoix's  barber.  Although  his  condition  was 
known,  the  hideous  impudence  of  the  fellow  did 
not  desert  him,  and  he  remained  in  Bath,  where  none 
would  speak  to  him." 

"Is  your  farrago  nigh  done,  sir?" 

"A  few  moments,  madam.  One  evening,  three 
weeks  gone,  I  observed  a  very  elegant  equipage 
draw  up  to  my  door,  and  the  Duke  of  Chateaurien 
was  announced.  The  young  man's  manners  were 
worthy — according  to  the  French  acceptance— 
and  'twere  idle  to  deny  him  the  most  monstrous 
assurance.  He  declared  himself  a  noble  traveling 
for  pleasure.  He  had  taken  lodgings  in  Bath  for 
a  season,  he  said,  and  called  at  once  to  pay  his  re- 
spects to  me.  His  tone  was  so  candid — in  truth,  I 
am  the  simplest  of  men,  very  easily  gulled — and  his 
stroke  so  bold,  that  I  did  not  for  one  moment  sus- 
pect him;  and,  to  my  poignant  regret — though  in 
the  humblest  spirit  I  have  shown  myself  eager  to 
atone — that  very  evening  I  had  the  shame  of  pre- 
senting him  to  yourself." 

"The  shame,  sir!" 

"Have  patience,  pray,  madam.  Ay,  the  shame! 
You  know  what  figure  he  hath  cut  in  Bath  since  that 
evening.  All  ran  merrily  with  him  until  several 


44  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAffiE 

days  ago  Captain  Badger  denounced  him  as  an  im- 
postor, vowing  that  Chateaurien  was  nothing." 

"Pardon,"  interrupted  M.  Beaucaire.  "  'Castle 
Nowhere'  would  have  been  so  much  better.  Why 
did  you  not  make  him  say  it  that  way,  monsieur?" 

Lady  Mary  started;  she  was  looking  at  the  Duke, 
and  her  face  was  white.  He  continued:  "Poor  Cap- 
tain Badger  was  stabbed  that  same  day " 

"Most  befitting  poor  Captain  Badger,"  muttered 
Molyneux. 

" — And  his  adversary  had  the  marvelous  inso- 
lence to  declare  that  he  fought  in  my  quarrel !  This 
afternoon  the  wounded  man  sent  for  me,  and  im- 
parted a  very  horrifying  intelligence.  He  had  dis- 
covered a  lackey  whom  he  had  seen  waiting  upon 
Beaucaire  in  attendance  at  the  door  of  this  Cha- 
teaurien's  lodging.  Beaucaire  had  disappeared  the 
day  before  Chateaurien's  arrival.  Captain  Badger 
looked  closely  at  Chateaurien  at  their  next  meet- 
ing, and  identified  him  with  the  missing  Beaucaire 
beyond  the  faintest  doubt.  Overcome  with  indig- 
nation, he  immediately  proclaimed  the  impostor. 
Out  of  regard  for  me,  he  did  not  charge  him  with 
being  Beaucaire;  the  poor  soul  was  unwilling  to  put 
upon  me  the  humiliation  of  having  introduced  a 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  45 

barber;  but  the  secret  weighed  upon  him  till  he  sent 
for  me  and  put  everything  in  my  hands.  I  accepted 
the  odium;  thinking  only  of  atonement.  I  went 
to  Sir  John  Wimpledon's  fete.  I  took  poor  Sir 
Hugh,  there,  and  these  other  gentlemen  aside,  and 
told  them  my  news.  We  narrowly  observed  this 
man,  and  were  shocked  at  our  simplicity  in  not  hav- 
ing discovered  him  before.  These  are  men  of  honor 
and  cool  judgment,  madam.  Mr.  Molyneux  had 
acted  for  him  in  the  affair  of  Captain  Badger,  and 
was  strongly  prejudiced  in  his  favor;  but  Mr.  Moly- 
neux, Sir  Hugh,  Mr.  Bantison,  every  one  of  them, 
in  short,  recognized  him.  In  spite  of  his  smooth 
face  and  his  light  hair,  the  adventurer  Beaucaire 
was  writ  upon  him  amazing  plain.  Look  at  him, 
madam,  if  he  will  dare  the  inspection.  You  saw 
this  Beaucaire  well,  the  day  of  his  expulsion  from 
the  rooms.  Is  not  this  he?" 

M.  Beaucaire  stepped  close  to  her.  Her  pale 
face  twitched. 

"Look!"  he  said. 

"Oh,  oh!"  she  whispered  with  a  dry  throat,  and 
fell  back  in  the  carriage. 

"Is  it  so?"  cried  the  Duke. 

"I  do  not  know — I — cannot  tell." 


46  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

"One  moment  more.  I  begged  these  gentlemer 
to  allow  me  to  wipe  out  the  insult  I  had  unhappily 
offered  to  Bath,  but  particularly  to  you.  They 
agreed  not  to  forestall  me  or  to  interfere.  I  left 
Sir  John  Wimpledon's  early,  and  arranged  to  give 
the  sorry  rascal  a  lashing  under  your  own  eyes, 
a  satisfaction  due  the  lady  into  whose  presence  he 
had  dared  to  force  himself." 

"  'Noblesse  oblige'?9'  said  M.  Beaucaire  in  a  tone 
of  gentle  inquiry. 

"And  now,  madam,"  said  the  Duke,  "I  will 
detain  you  not  one  second  longer.  I  plead  the 
good  purpose  of  my  intentions,  begging  you  to 
believe  that  the  desire  to  avenge  a  hateful  outrage, 
next  to  the  wish  to  serve  you,  forms  the  dearest 
motive  in  the  heart  of  Winterset." 

"Bravo!"  cried  Beaucaire  softly. 

Lady  Mary  leaned  toward  him,  a  thriving  terror 
in  her  eyes.  "It  is  false?"  she  faltered. 

"Monsieur  should  not  have  been  born  so  high. 
He  could  have  made  little  book'." 

"You  mean  it  is  false?"  she  cried  breathlessly. 

"'Od's  blood,  is  she  not  convinced?"  broke  out 
Mr.  Bantison.  "Fellow,  were  you  not  the  ambassa- 
dor's barber?" 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  47 

"It  is  all  false?"  she  whispered. 

"The  mos'  fine  art,  mademoiselle.  How  long 
you  think  it  take  M.  de  Winterset  to  learn  that 
speech  after  he  write  it  out?  It  is  a  mix  of  what 
is  true  and  the  mos'  chaste  art.  Monsieur  has 
become  a  man  of  letters.  Perhaps  he  may  enjoy 
that  more  than  the  wars.  Ha,  ha!" 

Mr.  Bantison  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter.  "Do 
French  gentlemen  fight  lackeys?  Ho,  ho,  ho!  A 
pretty  country !  We  English  do  as  was  done  to-night, 
have  our  servants  beat  them." 

"And  attend  ourselves,"  added  M.  Beaucaire, 
looking  at  the  Duke,  "somewhat  in  the  background? 
But,  pardon,"  he  mocked,  "that  remind*  me.  Fran- 
cois, return  to  Mr.  Bantison  and  these  gentlemen 
their  weapons." 

"Will  you  answer  a  question?"  said  Molyneux 
mildly. 

"Oh,  with  pleasure,  monsieur." 

"Were  you  ever  a  barber?" 

"No,  monsieur,"  laughed  the  young  man. 

"Pah!"  exclaimed  Bantison.  "Let  me  question 
him.  Now,  fellow,  a  confession  may  save  you  from 
jail.  Do  you  deny  you  are  Beaucaire?" 

"Deny  to  a  such  judge?" 


48  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

"Ha!"  said  Bantison.  "What  more  do  you  want, 
Molyneux?  Fellow,  do  you  deny  that  you  came  to 
London  in  the  ambassador's  suite?" 

"No,  I  do  not  deny." 

"He  admits  it!     Didn't  you  come  as  his  barber?" 

"Yes,  my  frien',  as  his  barber." 

Lady  Mary  cried  out  faintly,  and,  shuddering, 
put  both  hands  over  her  eyes. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  Molyneux.  "You  fight  like  a 
gentleman." 

"I  thank  you,  monsieur." 

"You  called  yourself  Beaucaire?" 

"Yes,  monsieur."  He  was  swaying  to  and  fro; 
his  servants  ran  to  support  him. 

"I  wish—  "  continued  Molyneux,  hesitating.  "Evil 
take  me! — but  I'm  sorry  you're  hurt." 

"Assist  Sir  Hugh  into  my  carriage,"  said  Lady 
Mary. 

"Farewell,  mademoiselle!"  M.  Beaucaire's  voice 
was  very  faint.  His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  face. 
She  did  not  look  toward  him. 

They  were  propping  Sir  Hugh  on  the  cushions. 
The  Duke  rode  up  close  to  Beaucaire,  but  Francois 
seized  his  bridle  fiercely,  and  forced  the  horse  back 
on  its  haunches. 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  49 

"The  man's  servants  worship  him,"  said 
Molyneux. 

"Curse  your  insolence!"  exclaimed  the  Duke. 
"How  much  am  I  to  bear  from  this  varlet  and  his 
varlets?  Beaucaire,  if  you  have  not  left  Bath  by 
to-morrow  noon,  you  will  be  clapped  into  jail, 
and  the  lashing  you  escaped  to-night  shall  be  given 
you  thrice  tenfold!" 

"I  shall  be — in  the — Assembly — Room'  at  nine 
—o'clock,  one  week — from — to-night,"  answered  the 
young  man,  smiling  jauntily,  though  his  lips  were 
colorless.  The  words  cost  him  nearly  all  his  breath 
and  strength.  "You  mus'  keep) — in  the — back- 
groun',  monsieur.  Ha,  ha!" 

The  door  of  the  coach  closed  with  a  slam. 

"Mademoiselle — fare — well !" 

"Drive  on!"  said  Lady  Mary. 

M.  Beaucaire  followed  the  carriage  with  his 
eyes.  As  the  noise  of  the  wheels  and  the  hoof- 
beats  of  the  accompanying  cavalcade  grew  fainter 
in  the  distance,  the  handkerchief  he  had  held  against 
his  side  dropped  into  the  white  dust,  a  heavy  red 
splotch. 

"Only — roses,"  he  gasped,  and  fell  back  in  the 
arms  of  his  servants. 


CHAPTER  V 

BEAU  NASH  stood  at  the  door  of  the  rooms^ 
smiling  blandly  upon  a  dainty  throng  in 
the  pink  of  its  finery  and  gay  furbelows. 
The  great  exquisite  bent  his  body  constantly  in  a 
series  of  consummately  adjusted  bows:  before  a 
great  dowager,  seeming  to  sweep  the  floor  in  august 
deference;  somewhat  stately  to  the  young  bucks; 
greeting  the  wits  with  gracious  friendliness  and  a 
twinkle  of  raillery;  inclining  with  fatherly  gallantry 
before  the  beauties;  the  degree  of  his  inclination 
measured  the  altitude  of  the  recipient  as  accurately 
as  a  nicely  calculated  sand-glass  measures  the 
hours. 

The  King  of  Bath  was  happy,  for  wit,  beauty, 
fashion — to  speak  more  concretely:  nobles,  belles, 
gamesters,  beaux,  statesmen,  and  poets — made 
fairyland  (or  opera  bouffe,  at  least)  in  his  domin- 
ions; play  ran  higher  and  higher,  and  Mr.  Nash's 
coffers  filled  up  with  gold.  To  crown  his  pleasure, 

a  prince  of  the  French  blood,  the  young  Comte  de 

-50 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  51 

Beaujolais,  just  arrived  from  Paris,  had  reached 
Bath  at  noon  in  state,  accompanied  by  the  Mar- 
quis de  Mirepoix,  the  ambassador  of  Louis  XV. 
The  Beau  dearly  prized  the  society  of  the  lofty, 
and  the  present  visit  was  an  honor  to  Bath:  hence 
to  the  Master  of  Ceremonies.  What  was  better, 
there  would  be  some  profitable  hours  with  the 
cards  and  dice.  So  it  was  that  Mr.  Nash  smiled 
never  more  benignly  than  on  that  bright  evening. 
The  rooms  rang  with  the  silvery  voices  of  women 
and  delightful  laughter,  while  the  fiddles  went 
merrily,  their  melodies  chiming  sweetly  with  the 
joyance  of  his  mood. 

The  skill  and  brazen  effrontery  of  the  ambassa- 
dor's scoundrelly  servant  in  passing  himself  off  for 
a  man  of  condition  formed  the  point  of  departure 
for  every  conversation.  It  was  discovered  that 
there  were  but  three  persons  present  who  had  not 
suspected  him  from  the  first;  and,  by  a  singular 
paradox,  the  most  astute  of  all  proved  to  be  old 
Mr.  Bicksit,  the  traveler,  once  a  visitor  at  Chateau- 
rien;  for  he,  according  to  report,  had  by  a  coup  of 
diplomacy  entrapped  the  impostor  into  an  ad- 
mission that  there  was  no  such  place.  However, 
like  poor  Captain  Badger,  the  worthy  old  man 


52  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

had  held  his  peace  out  of  regard  for  the  Duke  of 
Winterset.  This  nobleman,  heretofore  secretly  dis- 
liked, suspected  of  irregular  devices  at  play,  and 
never  admired,  had  won  admiration  and  popularity 
by  his  remorse  for  the  mistake,  and  by  the  modesty 
of  his  attitude  in  endeavoring  to  atone  for  it,  with- 
out presuming  upon  the  privilege  of  his  rank  to 
laugh  at  the  indignation  of  society;  an  action  the 
more  praiseworthy  because  his  exposure  of  the 
impostor  entailed  the  disclosure  of  his  own  cul- 
pability in  having  stood  the  villain's  sponsor.  To- 
night, the  happy  gentleman,  with  Lady  Mary 
Carlisle  upon  his  arm,  went  grandly  about  the 
rooms,  sowing  and  reaping  a  harvest  of  smiles. 
'Twas  said  work  would  be  begun  at  once  to  rebuild 
the  Duke's  country  seat,  while  several  ruined  Jews 
might  be  paid  out  of  prison.  People  gazing  on  the 
beauty  and  the  stately  but  modest  hero  by  her 
side,  said  they  would  make  a  noble  pair.  She  had 
long  been  distinguished  by  his  attentions,  and  he 
had  come  brilliantly  out  of  the  episode  of  the  French- 
man, who  had  been  his  only  real  rival.  Wherever 
they  went,  there  arose  a  buzz  of  pleasing  gossip 
and  adulation. 

Mr.  Nash,  seeing  them  near  him,  came  forward 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  58 

with  greetings.  A  word  on  the  side  passed  between 
the  nobleman  and  the  exquisite. 

"I  had  news  of  the  rascal  to-night,"  whispered 
Nash.  "He  lay  at  a  farm  till  yesterday,  when 
he  disappeared;  his  ruffians,  too." 

"You  have  arranged?"  asked  the  Duke. 

"Fourteen  bailiffs  are  watching  without.  He 
could  not  come  within  gunshot.  If  they  clap  eyes 
on  him,  they  will  hustle  him  to  jail,  and  his  cut- 
throats shall  not  avail  him  a  hair's  weight.  The 
impertinent  swore  he'd  be  here  by  nine,  did  he?" 

"He  said  so;  and  'tis  a  rash  dog,  sir." 

"It  is  just  nine  now." 

"Send  out  to  see  if  they  have  taken  him." 

"Gladly."  The  Beau  beckoned  an  attendant, 
and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

Many  of  the  crowd  had  edged  up  to  the  two 
gentlemen  with  apparent  carelessness,  to  overhear 
their  conversation.  Those  who  did  overhear  re- 
peated it  in  covert  asides,  and  this  circulating 
undertone,  confirming  a  vague  rumor  that  Beau- 
caire  would  attempt  the  entrance  that  night,  lent 
a  pleasurable  color  of  excitement  to  the  evening. 
The  French  prince,  the  ambassador,  and  their 
suites  were  announced.  Polite  as  the  assembly 


54  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

was,  it  was  also  curious,  and  there  occurred  a  man- 
nerly rush  to  see  the  newcomers.  Lady  Mary, 
already  pale,  grew  whiter  as  the  throng  closed 
round  her;  she  looked  up  pathetically  at  the  Duke, 
who  lost  no  time  in  extricating  her  from  the  pressure. 

"Wait  here,"  he  said;  "I  will  fetch  you  a  glass 
of  negus,"  and  disappeared.  He  had  not  thought 
to  bring  a  chair,  and  she,  looking  about  with  an 
increasing  faintness  and  finding  none,  saw  that 
she  was  standing  by  the  door  of  a  small  side-room. 
The  crowd  swerved  back  for  the  passage  of  the 
legate  of  France,  and  pressed  upon  her.  She  opened 
the  door,  and  went  in. 

The  room  was  empty  save  for  two  gentlemen, 
who  were  quietly  playing  cards  at  a  table.  They 
looked  up  as  she  entered.  They  were  M.  Beau- 
caire  and  Mr.  Molyneux. 

She  uttered  a  quick  cry  and  leaned  against  the 
wall,  her  hand  to  her  breast.  Beaucaire,  though 
white  and  weak,  had  brought  her  a  chair  before 
Molyneux  could  stir. 

"Mademoiselle " 

"Do  not  touch  me!"  she  cried,  with  such  frozen 
abhorrence  in  her  voice  that  he  stopped  short. 
"Mr.  Molyneux,  you  seek  strange  company!" 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  55 

"Madam,"  replied  Molyneux,  bowing  deeply,  as 
much  to  Beaucaire  as  to  herself,  "I  am  honored 
by  the  presence  of  both  of  you." 

"Oh,  are  you  mad!"  she  exclaimed,  contemp- 
tuously. 

"This  gentleman  has  exalted  me  with  his  con- 
fidence, madam,"  he  replied. 

"Will  you  add  your  ruin  to  the  scandal  of  this 
fellow's  presence  here?  How  he  obtained  en- 
trance  

"Pardon,  mademoiselle,"  interrupted  Beaucaire. 
"Did  I  not  say  I  should  come?  M.  Molyneux 
was  so  obliging  as  to  answer  for  me  to  the  four- 
teen frien's  of  M.  de  Winterset  and  Meestaire 
Nash." 

"Do  you  not  know,"  she  turned  vehemently 
upon  Molyneux,  "that  he  will  be  removed  the 
moment  I  leave  this  room?  Do  you  wish  to  be 
dragged  out  with  him?  For  your  sake,  sir,  because 
I  have  always  thought  you  a  man  of  heart,  I  give 
you  a  chance  to  save  yourself  from  disgrace — and 
— your  companion  from  jail.  Let  him  slip  out 
by  some  retired  way,  and  you  may  give  me  your 
arm  and  we  will  enter  the  next  room  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  Come,  sir " 


56  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

"Mademoiselle- 

"Mr.  Molyneux,  I  desire  to  hear  nothing  from 
your  companion.  Had  I  not  seen  you  at  cards 
with  him  I  should  have  supposed  him  in  attendance 
as  your  lackey.  Do  you  desire  to  take  advantage 
of  my  offer,  sir?" 

"Mademoiselle,  I  could  not  tell  you,  on  that 
night " 

"You  may  inform  your  high-born  friend,  Mr. 
Molyneux,  that  I  heard  everything  he  had  to  say; 
that  my  pride  once  had  the  pleasure  of  listening 
to  his  high-born  confession!" 

"Ah,  it  is  gentle  to  taunt  one  with  his  birth, 
mademoiselle?  Ah,  no!  There  is  a  man  in  my 
country  who  say  strange  things  of  that — that  a 
man  is  not  his  father,  but  himself'9 

"You  may  inform  your  friend,  Mr.  Molyneux, 
that  he  had  a  chance  to  defend  himself  against 
accusation;  that  he  said  all ' 

"That  I  did  say  all  I  could  have  strength  to  say. 
Mademoiselle,  you  did  not  see — as  it  was  right 
—that  I  had  been  stung  by  a  big  wasp.  It  was 
nothing,  a  scratch;  but,  mademoiselle,  the  sky 
went  round  and  the  moon  dance'  on  the  earth. 
I  could  not  wish  that  big  wasp  to  see  he  had  stung 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  57 

me;  so  I  mus'  only  say  what  I  can  have  strength 
for,  and  stan'  straight  till  he  is  gone.  Beside', 
there  are  other  rizzons.  Ah,  you  mus'  belief!  My 
Molyneux  I  sen'  for,  and  tell  him  all,  because  he 
show  courtesy  to  the  yo'ng  Frenchman,  and  I 
can  trus'  him.  I  trus'  you,  mademoiselle — long 
ago — and  would  have  toP  you  ev'rything,  excep' 
jus'  because — well,  for  the  romance,  the  fon!  You 
belief?  It  is  so  clearly  so;  you  do  belief,  made- 
moiselle?" 

She  did  not  even  look  at  him.  M.  Beaucaire 
lifted  his  hand  appealingly  toward  her.  "Can 
there  be  no  faith  in — in —  '  he  said  timidly,  and 
paused.  She  was  silent,  a  statue,  my  Lady  Dis- 
dain. 

"If  you  had  not  belief  me  to  be  an  impostor; 
if  I  had  never  said  I  was  Chateaurien;  if  I  had 
been  jus'  that  Monsieur  Beaucaire  of  the  story 
they  tol'  you,  but  never  with  the  heart  of  a  lackey, 
an  hones'  man,  a  man,  the  man  you  knew,  himself, 
could  you — would  you — '  He  was  trying  to  speak 
firmly;  yet,  as  he  gazed  upon  her  splendid  beauty, 
he  choked  slightly,  and  fumbled  in  the  lace  at 
his  throat  with  unsteady  fingers — "Would  you — 
have  let  me  ride  by  your  side  in  the  autumn  moon- 


£8  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

light?"  Her  glance  passed  by  him  as  it  might  have 
passed  by  a  footman  or  a  piece  of  furniture.  He 
was  dressed  magnificently,  a  multitude  of  orders 
glittering  on  his  breast.  Her  eye  took  no  knowl- 
edge of  him. 

"Mademoiselle — I  have  the  honor  to  ask  you; 
if  you  had  known  this  Beaucaire  was  hones',  though 
of  peasant  birth,  would  you— 

Involuntarily,  controlled  as  her  icy  presence 
was,  she  shuddered.  There  was  a  moment  of 
silence. 

"Mr.  Molyneux,"  said  Lady  Mary,  "in  spite 
of  your  discourtesy  in  allowing  a  servant  to  ad- 
dress me,  I  offer  you  a  last  chance  to  leave  this 
room  undisgraced.  Will  you  give  me  your  arm?" 

"Pardon  me,  madam,"  said  Mr.  Molyneux. 

Beaucaire  dropped  into  a  chair  with  his  head 
bent  low  and  his  arm  outstretched  on  the  table; 
his  eyes  filled  slowly  in  spite  of  himself,  and  two 
tears  rolled  down  the  young  man's  cheeks. 

"An'  live  men  are  jus' — names!"  said  M. 
Beaucaire. 


CHAPTER  VI 

IN  the  outer  room,  Winterset,  unable  to  find 
Lady  Mary,  and  supposing  her  to  have  joined 
Lady  Rellerton,  disposed  of  his  negus,  then 
approached  the  two  visitors  to  pay  his  respects 
to  the  young  prince,  whom  he  discovered  to  be 
a  stripling  of  seventeen,  arrogant-looking,  but 
pretty  as  a  girl.  Standing  beside  the  Marquis  de 
Mirepoix — a  man  of  quiet  bearing — he  was  sur- 
rounded by  a  group  of  the  great,  among  whom 
Mr.  Nash  naturally  counted  himself.  The  Beau 
was  felicitating  himself  that  the  foreigners  had 
not  arrived  a  week  earlier,  in  which  case  he  and 
Bath  would  have  been  detected  in  a  piece  of  gross 
ignorance  concerning  the  French  nobility — making 
much  of  de  Mirepoix's  ex-barber. 

:°Tis  a  lucky  thing  that  fellow  was  got  out  of 
the  way,"  he  ejaculated,  under  cover. 

"Thank  me  for  it,"  rejoined  Winterset. 

An  attendant  begged  Mr.   Nash's  notice.     Tbe 

head   bailiff   sent   word   that   Beaucaire   had   long 

59 


60  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

since  entered  the  building  by  a  side  door.  It  was 
supposed  Mr.  Nash  had  known  of  it,  and  the  French- 
man was  not  arrested,  as  Mr.  Molyneux  was  in 
his  company,  and  said  he  would  be  answerable 
for  him.  Consternation  was  so  plain  on  the  Beau's 
trained  face  that  the  Duke  leaned  toward  him 
anxiously. 

"The  villain's  in,  and  Molyneux  hath  gone 
*iad!" 

Mr.  Bantison,  who  had  been  fiercely  elbowing 
his  way  toward  them,  joined  heads  with  them. 
"You  may  well  say  he  is  in,"  he  exclaimed,  "and 
if  you  want  to  know  where,  why,  in  yonder  card- 
room.  I  saw  him  through  the  half-open  door." 

"What's  to  be  done?"  asked  the  Beau. 

"Send  the  bailiffs- 

"Fie,  fie!    A  file  of  bailiffs?    The  scandal!" 

"Then  listen  to  me,"  said  the  Duke.  "I'll  select 
half-a-dozen  gentlemen,  explain  the  matter,  and 
we'll  put  him  in  the  center  of  us  and  take  him 
out  to  the  bailiffs.  'Twill  appear  nothing.  Do 
you  remain  here  and  keep  the  attention  of  Beaujo- 
lais  and  de  Mirepoix.  Come,  Bantison,  fetch 
Townbrake  and  Harry  Rakell  yonder;  I'll  bring 
the  others." 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  61 

Three  minutes  later,  his  Grace  of  Winterset 
flung  wide  the  card-room  door,  and,  after  his  friends 
had  entered,  closed  it. 

"Ah!"  remarked  M.  Beaucaire  quietly.  "Six 
more  large  men." 

The  Duke,  seeing  Lady  Mary,  started;  but  the 
angry  signs  of  her  interview  had  not  left  her 
face,  and  reassured  him.  He  offered  his  hand 
to  conduct  her  to  the  door.  "May  I  have  the 
honor?" 

"If  this  is  to  be  known,  'twill  be  better  if  I  leave 
after;  I  should  be  observed  if  I  went  now." 

"As  you  will,  madam,"  he  answered,  not  dis- 
pleased. "And  now,  you  impudent  villain,"  he 
began,  turning  to  M.  Beaucaire,  but  to  fall  back 
astounded.  "'Od's  blood,  the  dog  hath  murdered 
and  robbed  some  royal  prince!"  He  forgot  Lady 
Mary's  presence  in  his  excitement.  "Lay  hands 
on  him!"  he  shouted.  "Tear  those  orders  from 
him!" 

Molyneux  threw  himself  between.  "One  word!" 
he  cried.  "One  word  before  you  offer  an  outrage 
you  will  repent  all  your  lives!" 

"Or  let  M.  de  Winterset  come  alone,"  laughed 
M.  Beaucaire. 


60  MONSIEWR  BEA¥CAIRE 

"Do  you  expect  me  t®  fight  a  cutthroat  barber, 
and  with  bare  hands?" 

"I  think  one  does  not  expec'  monsieur  to  fight 
anybody.  Would  /  fight  you,  you  think?  That 
was  why  I  had  my  servants,  that  evening  we  play. 
I  would  gladly  fight  almos'  any  one  in  the  worP; 
but  I  did  not  wish  to  soil  my  hand  with  a " 

"Stuff  his  lying  mouth  with  his  orders!"  shouted 
the  Duke. 

But  Molyneux  still  held  the  gentlemen  back. 
"One  moment,"  he  cried. 

"M.  de  Winterset,"  said  Beaucaire,  "of  what 
are  you  afraid?  You  calculate  well.  Beaucaire 
might  have  been  belief — an  impostor  that  you 
yourself  expose'?  Never!  But  I  was  not  goinv 
reveal  that  secret.  You  have  not  absolve  me  of 
my  promise." 

'Tell  what  you  like,"  answered  the  Duke.  "Tell 
all  the  wild  lies  you  have  time  for.  You  have 
five  minutes  to  make  up  your  mind  to  go  quietly." 

"Now  you  absolve  me,  then?  Ha,  ha!  Oh, 
yes!  Mademoiselle,"  he  bowed  to  Lady  Mary, 
"I  have  the  honor  to  reques'  you  leave  the  room. 
You  shall  miss  no  details  if  these  Men's  of  yours 
kill  me,  on  the  honor  of  a  French  gentleman," 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  66 

"A  French  what?"  laughed  Bantison. 

"Do  you  dare  keep  up  the  pretense?"  cried 
Lord  Townbrake.  "Know,  you  villain  barber, 
that  your  master,  the  Marquis  de  Mirepoix,  is 
in  the  next  room." 

Molyneux  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  relief.  "Shall 
I—  He  turned  to  M.  Beaucaire. 

The  young  man  laughed,  and  said:  "Tell  him 
come  here  at  once." 

"Impudent  to  the  last!"  cried  Bantison,  as 
Molyneux  hurried  from  the  room. 

"Now  you  goin'  to  see  M.  Beaucaire's  master," 
said  Beaucaire  to  Lady  Mary.  "Tis  true  what 
I  say,  the  other  night.  I  cross  from  France  in  his 
suite;  my  passport  say  as  his  barber.  Then  to 
pass  the  ennui  of  exile,  I  come  to  Bath  and  play 
for  what  one  will.  It  kill  the  time.  But  when  the 
people  hear  I  have  been  a  servant  they  come  only 
secretly;  and  there  is  one  of  them — he  has  absolve' 
me  of  a  promise  not  to  speak — of  him  I  learn  some- 
thing he  cannot  wish  to  be  tol'.  I  make  some 
trouble  to  learn  this  thing.  Why  I  should  do  this? 
Well — that  is  my  own  rizzon.  So  I  make  this 
man  help  me  in  a  masque,  the  unmasking  it  was, 
for,  as  there  is  no  one  to  know  me,  I  throw  off 


64  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

my  black  wig  and  become  myself — and  so  I  am 
'Chateaurien/  Castle  Nowhere.  Then  this  man 
I  use',  this  Winterset,  he— 

"I  have  great  need  to  deny  these  accusations?" 
said  the  Duke. 

"Nay,"  said  Lady  Mary  wearily. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  why  I  mus'  be  *  Victor'  and 
'Beaucaire'  and  'Chateaurien,'  and  not  my- 
self?" 

"To  escape  from  the  bailiffs  for  debts  for  razors 
and  soap,"  gibed  Lord  Townbrake. 

"No,  monsieur.  In  France  I  have  got  a  cousin 
who  is  a  man  with  a  very  bad  temper  at  some 
time',  and  he  will  never  enjoy  his  relatives  to  do 
what  he  does  not  wish 

He  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  commotion  from 
without.  The  door  was  flung  open,  and  the  young 
Count  of  Beaujolais  bounded  in  and  threw  his 
arms  about  the  neck  of  M.  Beaucaire. 

"Philippe!"  he  cried.  "My  brother,  I  have  come 
to  take  you  back  with  me." 

M.  de  Mirepoix  followed  him,  bowing  as  a  courtier, 
in  deference;  but  M.  Beaucaire  took  both  his  hands 
heartily.  Molyneux  came  after,  with  Mr.  Nash, 
and  closed  the  door. 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  65 

"My  warmest  felicitations,"  said  the  Marquis. 
"There  is  no  longer  need  for  your  incognito." 

"Thou  best  of  masters!"  said  Beaucaire,  touch- 
ing him  fondly  on  the  shoulder.  "I  know.  Your 
courier  came  safely.  And  so  I  am  forgiven!  But 
I  forget."  He  turned  to  the  lady.  She  had  be- 
gun to  tremble  exceedingly.  "Faires'  of  all  the 
English  fair,"  he  said,  as  the  gentlemen  bowed 
low  to  her  deep  courtesy,  "I  beg  the  honor  to  pre- 
sen'  to  Lady  Mary  Carlisle,  M.  le  Comte  de  Beaujo- 
lais.  M.  de  Mirepoix  has  already  the  honor.  Lady 
Mary  has  been  very  kind  to  me,  my  frien's;  you 
mus'  help  me  make  my  acknowledgment.  Made- 
moiselle and  gentlemen,  will  you  give  me  that 
favor  to  detain  you  one  instan'?" 

"Henri,"  he  turned  to  the  young  Beaujolais, 
"I  wish  you  had  shared  iny  masque — I  have  been 
so  gay!"  The  surface  of  his  tone  was  merry,  but 
there  was  an  undercurrent,  weary-sad,  to  speak 
of  what  was  the  mood,  not  the  manner.  He  made 
the  effect  of  addressing  every  one  present,  but 
he  looked  steadily  at  Lady  Mary.  Her  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  him,  with  a  silent  and  frightened  fas- 
cination, and  she  trembled  more  and  more.  "I 
am  a  great  actor,  Henri.  These  gentlemen  are 


66  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

yet  scarce  convince'  I  am  not  a  lackey!  And  I 
mus'  tell  you  that  I  was  jus'  now  to  be  expelled 
for  having  been  a  barber!" 

"Oh,  no!"  the  ambassador  cried  out.  "He  would 
not  be  content  with  me;  he  would  wander  over  a 
strange  country." 

{•  "Ha,  ha,  my  Mirepoix!  And  what  is  better, 
one  evening  I  am  oblige'  to  fight  some  frien's  of 
M.  de  Winterset  there,  and  some  ladies  and  cav- 
aliers look  on,  and  they  still  think  me  a  servant. 
Oh,  I  am  a  great  actor!  'Tis  true  there  is  not  a 
peasant  in  France  who  would  not  have  then  known 
one  'born';  but  they  are  wonderful,  this  English 
people,  holding  by  an  idea  once  it  is  in  their  heads 
— a  mos'  worthy  quality.  But  my  good  Molyneux 
here,  he  had  speak  to  me  with  courtesy,  jus'  be- 
cause I  am  a  man  an'  jus'  because  he  is  al — ways 
kind.  (I  have  learn'  that  his  great-grandfather 
was  a  Frenchman.)  So  I  sen'  to  him  and  tell  him 
ev'rything,  and  he  gain  admittance  for  me  here 
to-night  to  await  my  frien's. 

"I  was  speaking  to  messieurs  about  my  cousin, 
who  will  meddle  in  the  affair'  of  his  relativ'.  Well, 
that  gentleman,  he  make  a  marriage  for  me  with 
a  good  and  accomplish'  lady,  very  noble  and  very 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIEE  67 

beautiful — and  amiable."  (The  young  count  at 
his  elbow  started  slightly  at  this,  but  immediately 
appeared  to  wrap  himself  in  a  mantle  of  solemn 
thought.)  "Unfortunately,  when  my  cousin  ar- 
range' so,  I  was  a  dolt,  a  little  blockhead;  I  swear 
to  marry  for  myself  and  when  I  please,  or  never 
if  I  like.  That  lady  is  all  things  charming  and 
gentle,  and,  in  truth,  she  is — very  much  attach' 
to  me — why  should  I  not  say  it?  I  am  so  proud 
of  it.  She  is  very  faithful  and  forgiving  and  sweet; 
she  would  be  the  same,  I  think,  if  I — were  even — 
a  lackey.  But  I?  I  was  a  dolt,  a  little  unsensible 
brute;  I  did  not  value  such  thing'  then;  I  was  too 
yo'ng,  las'  June.  So  I  say  to  my  cousin,  'No,  I 
make  my  own  choosing!'  'Little  fool,'  he  answer, 
'she  is  the  one  for  you.  Am  I  not  wiser  than  you?' 
And  he  was  very  angry,  and,  as  he  has  influence 
in  France,  word  come'  that  he  will  get  me  put  in 
Vincennes,  so  I  inus'  run  away  quick  till  his  anger 
is  gone.  My  good  frien'  Mirepoix  is  jus'  leaving 
for  London;  he  take'  many  risk'  for  my  sake;  his 
hairdresser  die  before  he  start',  so  I  travel  as  that 
poor  barber.  But  my  cousin  is  a  man  to  be  afraid 
of  when  he  is  angry,  even  in  England,  and  I  mus' 
not  get  my  Mirepoix  in  trouble.  I  mus'  not  be 


68  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

discover'  till  my  cousin  is  ready  to  laugh  about  it 
all  and  make  it  a  joke.  And  there  may  be  spies;  so 
I  change  my  name  again,  and  come  to  Bath  to  amuse 
my  retreat  with  a  little  gaming — I  am  al — ways 
fond  of  that.  But  three  day'  ago  M.  le  Marquis 
send  me  a  courier  to  say  that  my  brother,  who 
know  where  I  had  run  away,  is  come  from  France 
to  say  that  my  cousin  is  appease';  he  need  me  for 
his  little  theatre,  the  play  cannot  go  on.  I  do  not 
need  to  espouse  mademoiselle.  All  shall  be  for- 
given if  I  return,  and  my  brother  and  M.  de  Mire- 
poix  will  meet  me  in  Bath  to  felicitate. 

"There  is  one  more  thing  to  say,  that  is  all.  I 
have  said  I  learn'  a  secret,  and  use  it  to  make  a 
man  introduce  me  if  I  will  not  tell.  He  has 
absolve*  me  of  that  promise.  My  fren's,  I  had 
not  the  wish  to  ruin  that  man.  I  was  not  re- 
ceive'; Meestaire  Nash  had  reboff  me;  I  had  no 
other  way  excep'  to  use  this  fellow.  So  I  say, 
'Take  me  to  Lady  Malbourne's  ball  as  "Chateau- 
rien."  I  throw  off  my  wig,  and  shave,  and 
behoF,  I  am  M.  le  Due  de  Castle  Nowhere.  Ha, 
ha!  You  see?" 

The  young  man's  manner  suddenly  changed. 
He  became  haughty,  menacing.  He  stretched  out 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  69 

his  arm,  and  pointed  at  Winterset.  "Now  I  am  no 
'Beaucaire,'  messieurs.  I  am  a  French  gentleman. 
The  man  who  introduce'  me  at  the  price  of  his 
honor,  and  then  betray'  me  to  redeem  it,  is  that 
coward,  that  card-cheat  there!" 

Winterset  made  a  horrible  effort  to  laugh.  The 
gentlemen  who  surrounded  him  fell  away  as  from 
pestilence.  "A  French  gentleman!"  he  sneered 
savagely,  and  yet  fearfully.  "I  don't  know  who 
you  are.  Hide  behind  as  many  toys  and  ribbons 
as  you  like;  I'll  know  the  name  of  the  man  who 
dares  bring  such  a  charge!" 

"Sir!"  cried  de  Mirepoix  sharply,  advancing  a 
step  towards  him;  but  he  checked  himself  at  once. 
He  made  a  low  bow  of  state,  first  to  the  young 
Frenchman,  then  to  Lady  Mary  and  the  company. 
''Permit  me,  Lady  Mary  and  gentlemen,"  he  said, 
"to  assume  the  honor  of  presenting  you  to  His 
Higliness,  Prince  Louis-Pliilippe  de  Valois,  Duke  of 
Orleans,  Duke  of  Chartres,  Duke  of  Nemours, 
Duke  of  Montpensier,  First  Prince  of  the  Blood 
Royal,  First  Peer  of  France,  Lieutenant-General  of 
French  Infantry,  Governor  of  Dauphine,  Knight  of 
the  Golden  Fleece,  Grand  Master  of  the  Order  of 
Notre  Dame,  of  Mount  Carmel,  and  of  St.  Lazarus 


70  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

in   Jerusalem;   and   cousin   to  His  most   Christian 
Majesty,  Louis  the  Fifteenth,  King  of  France." 

"Those  are  a  few  of  my  brother's  names,"  whis- 
pered Henri  of  Beaujolais  to  Molyneux.  "Old 
Mirepoix  has  the  long  breath,  but  it  take'  a  strong 
man  two  day'  to  say  all  of  them.  I  can  suppose 
this  Winterset  know'  now  who  bring  the  charge!" 

"Castle  Nowhere!"  gasped  Beau  Nash,  falling 
back  upon  the  burly  prop  of  Mr.  Bantison's  shoulder. 

"The  Duke  of  Orleans  will  receive  a  message 
from  me  within  the  hour!"  said  Winterset,  as  he 
made  his  way  to  the  door.  His  face  was  black  with 
rage  and  shame. 

"I  tol'  you  that  I  would  not  soil  my  hand  with 
you,"  answered  the  young  man.  "If  you  send  a 
message  no  gentleman  will  bring  it.  Whoever  shall 
bear  it  will  receive  a  little  beating  from  Francois." 

He  stepped  to  Lady  Mary's  side.  Her  head  was 
bent  low,  her  face  averted.  She  seemed  to  breathe 
with  difficulty,  and  leaned  heavily  upon  a  chair. 
"Monseigneur,"  she  faltered  in  a  half  whisper,  "can 
you — forgive  me?  It  is  a  bitter — mistake — I  have 
made.  Forgive." 

"Forgive?"  he  answered,  and  his  voice  was  as 
broken  as  hers;  but  he  went  on,  more  firmly:  "It 


MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE  71 

is — nothing — less  than  nothing.  There  is — only 
jus'  one — in  the — whole  worF  who  would  not  have 
treat*  me  the  way  that  you  treat*  me.  It  is  to  her 
that  I  am  goin'  to  make  reparation.  You  know 
something,  Henri?  I  am  not  goin'  back  only  be- 
cause the  king  forgive*  me.  I  am  goin'  to  please 
him;  I  am  goin'  to  espouse  mademoiselle,  our  cousin. 
My  frien's,  I  ask  your  felicitations." 

"And  the  king  does  not  compel  him!"  exclaimed 
young  Henri. 

"Henri,  you  want  to  fight  me?"  cried  his  brother 
sharply.  "Don'  you  think  the  King  of  France  is  a 
wiser  man  than  me?" 

He  offered  his  hand  to  Lady  Mary. 

"Mademoiselle  is  fatigue'.  Will  she  honor 
me?". 

He  walked  with  her  to  the  door,  her  hand  flutter- 
ing faintly  in  his.  From  somewhere  about  the  gar- 
ments of  one  of  them  a  little  cloud  of  faded  rose- 
leaves  fell,  and  lay  strewn  on  the  floor  behind  them. 
He  opened  the  door,  and  the  lights  shone  on  a 
multitude  of  eager  faces  turned  toward  it.  There 
was  a  great  hum  of  voices,  and,  over  all,  the  fiddles 
wove  a  wandering  air,  a  sweet  French  song  of  the 
voyagewr. 


72  MONSIEUR  BEAUCAIRE 

He  bowed  very  low,  as,  with  fixed  and  glistening 
eyes,  Lady  Mary  Carlisle,  the  Beauty  of  Bath, 
passed  slowly  by  him  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

THE   END 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 


CHAPTER  I 

NOTHING  could  have  been  more  painful  to 
my  sensitiveness  than  to  occupy  myself, 
confused  with  blushes,  at  the  centre  of  the 
whole  world  as  a  living  advertisement  of  the  least 
amusing  ballet  in  Paris. 

To  be  the  day's  sensation  of  the  boulevards  one 
must  possess  an  eccentricity  of  appearance  conceived 
by  nothing  short  of  genius;  and  my  misfortunes  had 
reduced  me  to  present  such  to  all  eyes  seeking  mirth. 
It  was  not  that  I  was  one  of  those  people  in  uniform 
who  carry  placards  and  strange  figures  upon  their 
backs,  nor  that  my  coat  was  of  rags;  on  the  con- 
trary, my  whole  costume  was  delicately  rich  and 
well  chosen,  of  soft  grey  and  fine  linen  (such  as  you 
see  worn  by  a  marquis  in  the  pesage  at  Auteuil) 
according  well  with  my  usual  air  and  countenance, 
sometimes  esteemed  to  resemble  my  father's,  which 
were  not  wanting  in  distinction. 

To  add  to  this,  my  duties  were  not  exhausting  to 

the  body.     I  was  required  only  to  sit  without  a  hat 

75 


76  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

from  ten  of  the  morning  to  midday,  and  from  four 
until  seven  in  the  afternoon,  at  one  of  the  small 
tables  under  the  awning  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  at 
the  corner  of  the  Place  de  POpera — that  is  to  say, 
the  centre  of  the  inhabited  world.  In  the  morning 
I  drank  my  coffee,  hot  in  the  cup;  in  the  afternoon 
I  sipped  it  cold  in  the  glass.  I  spoke  to  no  one;  not 
a  glance  or  gesture  of  mine  passed  to  attract  notice. 

Yet  I  was  the  centre  of  that  centre  of  the  world. 
All  day  the  crowds  surrounded  me,  laughing  loudly; 
all  the  voyous  making  those  jokes  for  which  I  found 
no  repartee.  The  pavement  was  sometimes  blocked; 
the  passing  coachmen  stood  up  in  their  boxes  to 
look  over  at  me,  small  infants  were  elevated  on 
shoulders  to  behold  me;  not  the  gravest  or  most 
sorrowful  came  by  without  stopping  to  gaze  at  me 
and  go  away  with  rejoicing  faces.  The  boulevards 
rang  to  their  laughter — all  Paris  laughed! 

For  seven  days  I  sat  there  at  the  appointed  times, 
meeting  the  eye  of  nobody,  and  lifting  my  coffee 
with  fingers  which  trembled  from  embarrassment  at 
this  too  great  conspicuosity !  Those  mournful  hours 
passed,  one  by  the  year,  while  the  idling  bourgeois 
and  the  travellers  made  ridicule;  and  the  rabWe 
exhausted  all  effort  to  draw  plays  of  wit  from  me. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  77 

I  have  told  you  that  I  carried  no  placard,  that 
my  costume  was  elegant,  my  demeanour  modest  in 
all  degree. 

"How,  then,  this  excitement?"  would  be  your 
disposition  to  inquire.  "Why  this  sensation?" 

It  is  very  simple.  My  hair  had  been  shaved 
off,  all  over  my  ears,  leaving  only  a  little  above  the 
back  of  the  neck,  to  give  an  appearance  of  far- 
reaching  baldness,  and  on  my  head  was  painted, 
in  ah!  so  brilliant  letters  of  distinctness: 

Theatre 

Folie-Rouge 

Revue 

de 

Printemps 
Taus  les  Soirs! 

Such  was  the  necessity  to  which  I  was  at  that 
time  reduced!  One  has  heard  that  the  North- 
Americans  invent  the  most  singular  advertising,  but 
I  will  not  believe  they  surpass  the  Parisian.  My- 
self, I  say  I  cannot  express  my  sufferings  under  the 
notation  of  the  crowds  that  moved  about  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix!  The  French  are  a  terrible  people  when 


78  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

they  laugh  sincerely.  It  is  not  so  much  the  amusing 
tilings  which  cause  them  amusement;  it  is  often  the 
strange,  those  contrasts  which  contain  something 
horrible,  and  when  they  laugh  there  is  too  frequently 
some  person  who  is  uncomfortable  or  wicked.  I  am 
glad  that  I  was  born  not  a  Frenchman;  I  should 
regret  to  be  native  to  a  country  where  they  invent 
such  things  as  I  was  doing  in  the  Place  de  TOpera; 
for,  as  I  tell  you,  the  idea  was  not  mine. 

As  I  sat  with  my  eyes  drooping  before  the  gaze 
of  my  terrible  and  applauding  audiences,  how  I 
mentally  formed  cursing  words  against  the  day  when 
my  misfortunes  led  me  to  apply  at  the  Theatre 
Folie-Rouge  for  work!  I  had  expected  an  audition 
and  a  r61e  of  comedy  in  the  Revw;  for,  perhaps 
lacking  any  experience  of  the  stage,  I  am  a  Neapoli- 
tan by  birth,  though  a  resident  of  the  Continent  at 
large  since  the  age  of  fifteen.  All  Neapolitans  can 
act;  all  are  actors;  comedians  of  the  greatest,  as 
every  traveller  is  cognizant.  There  is  a  thing  in 
the  air  of  our  beautiful  slopes  which  makes  the 
people  of  a  great  instinctive  musicalness  and  decef>- 
tiveness,  with  passions  like  those  burning  in  the 
old  mountain  we  have  there.  They  are  ready  to 
play,  to  sing — or  to  explode,  yet,  imitating  that 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  79 

amusing  Vesuvio,  they  never  do  this  last  when  you 
are  in  expectancy,  or,  as  a  spectator,  hopeful  of  it. 
How  could  any  person  wonder,  then,  that  I,  find- 
ing myself  suddenly  destitute  in  Paris,  should  apply 
at  the  theatres?  One  after  another,  I  saw  myself 
no  farther  than  the  director's  door,  until  (having 
had  no  more  to  eat  the  day  preceding  than  three 
green  almonds,  which  I  took  from  a  cart  while  the 
good  female  was  not  looking)  I  reached  the  Folie- 
Rouge.  Here  I  was  astonished  to  find  a  polite  re- 
ception from  the  director.  It  eventuated  that 
they  wished  for  a  person  appearing  like  myself— 
a  person  whom  they  would  outfit  with  clothes  of 
quality  in  all  parts,  whose  external  presented  a 
gentleman  of  the  great  world,  not  merely  one  of 
the  gcdant-uomini,  but  who  would  impart  an  air  to 
a  table  at  a  cafe  where  he  might  sit  and  partake. 
The  contrast  of  this  with  the  emplacement  of  the 
embellishment  on  his  bald  head-top  was  to  be  the 
success  of  the  idea.  It  was  plain  that  I  had  no 
baldness,  my  hair  being  very  thick  and  I  but  twenty- 
four  years  of  age,  when  it  was  explained  that  my 
hair  could  be  shaved.  They  asked  me  to  accept, 
alas!  not  a  part  in  the  Revue,  but  a  specialty  as  a 
sandwich-man.  Knowing  the  English  tongue  as 


80  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

I  do,  I  may  afford  the  venturesomeness  to  play  upon 
it  a  little:  I  asked  for  bread,  and  they  offered  me 
not  a  role,  but  a  sandwich ! 

It  must  be  undoubted  that  I  possessed  not  the 
disposition  to  make  any  fun  with  my  accomplish- 
ments during  those  days  that  I  spent  under  the 
awning  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  I  had  consented  to 
be  the  advertisement  in  greatest  desperation,  and 
not  considering  what  the  reality  would  be.  Having 
consented,  honour  compelled  that  I  fulfil  to  the 
ending.  Also,  the  costume  and  outfittings  I  wore 
were  part  of  my  emolument.  They  had  been  con- 
structed for  me  by  the  finest  tailor;  and  though  I 
had  impulses,  often,  to  leap  up  and  fight  through 
the  noisy  ones  about  me  and  run  far  to  the  open 
country,  the  very  garments  I  wore  were  fetters 
binding  me  to  remain  and  suffer.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  hours  were  spent  not  in  the  centre  of  a 
ring  of  human  persons,  but  of  un-well-made  panta- 
loons and  ugly  skirts.  Yet  all  of  these  pantaloons 
and  skirts  had  such  scrutinous  eyes  and  expressions 
of  mirth  to  laugh  like  demons  at  my  conscious,  burn- 
ing painted  head;  eyes  which  spread  out,  astonished 
at  the  sight  of  me,  and  peered  and  winked  and 
grinned  from  the  big  wrinkles  above  the  gaiters  of 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  81 

Zouaves,  from  the  red  breeches  of  the  gendarmes, 
the  knickerbockers  of  the  cyclists,  the  white  ducks 
of  sen-gents  de  wile,  and  the  knees  of  the  boulevar- 
diers,  bagged  with  sitting  cross-legged  at  the  little 
tables.  I  could  not  escape  these  eyes; — how  scorn- 
fully they  twinkled  at  me  from  the  spurred  and 
glittering  officers'  boots!  How  with  amaze  from 
the  American  and  English  trousers,  both  turned 
up  and  creased  like  folded  paper,  both  with  some 
dislike  for  each  other  but  for  all  other  trousers 
more. 

It  was  only  at  such  times  when  the  mortification 
to  appeal*  so  greatly  embarrassed  became  strongei 
than  the  embarrassment  itself  that  I  could  by  will 
power  force  my  head  to  a  straight  construction  and 
look  out  upon  my  spectators  firmly.  On  the  second 
day  of  my  ordeal,  so  facing  the  laughers,  I  found 
myself  glaring  straight  into  the  monocle  of  my 
half-brother  and  ill-wisher,  Prince  Caravacioli. 

At  this,  my  agitation  was  sudden  and  very  great, 
for  there  was  no  one  I  wished  to  prevent  perceiving 
my  condition  more  than  that  old  Antonio  Cara- 
vacioli! I  had  not  known  that  he  was  in  Paris, 
but  I  could  have  no  doubt  it  was  himself:  The 
monocle,  the  handsome  nose,  the  toupee,  the  yellow 


m  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

skin,  the  dyed-black  moustache,  the  splendid  height 
— it  was  indeed  Caravacioli!  He  was  costumed  for 
the  automobile,  and  threw  but  one  glance  at  me  as 
he  crossed  the  pavement  to  his  car,  which  was  in 
waiting.  There  was  no  change,  not  of  the  faintest, 
in  that  frosted  tragic  mask  of  a  countenance,  and 
I  was  glad  to  think  that  he  had  not  recognized  me. 

And  yet,  how  strange  that  I  should  care,  since 
all  his  life  he  had  declined  to  recognize  me  as  what 
I  was!  Ah,  I  should  have  been  glad  to  shout  his 
age,  his  dyes,  his  artificialities,  to  all  the  crowd, 
so  to  touch  him  where  it  would  most  pain  him! 
For  was  he  not  the  vainest  man  in  the  whole  world? 
How  well  I  knew  his  vulnerable  point:  the  monstrous 
depth  of  his  vanity  in  that  pretence  of  youth  which 
he  preserved  through  superhuman  pains  and  a 
genius  of  a  valet,  most  excellently!  I  had  much 
to  pay  Antonio  for  myself,  more  for  my  father,  most 
for  my  mother.  This  was  why  that  last  of  all  the 
world  I  would  have  wished  that  old  fortune-hunter 
to  know  how  far  I  had  been  reduced! 

Then  I  rejoiced  about  that  change  which  my  unreal 
baldness  produced  in  me,  giving  me  a  look  of  forty 
years  instead  of  twenty-four,  so  that  my  oldest 
friend  must  take  at  least  three  stares  to  know  me. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  83 

Also,  my  costume  would  disguise  me  from  the  few 
acquaintances  I  had  in  Paris  (if  they  chanced  to 
cross  the  Seine),  as  they  had  only  seen  me  in  the 
shabbiest;  while,  at  my  last  meeting  with  Antonio, 
I  had  been  as  fine  in  the  coat  as  now. 

Yet  my  encouragement  was  not  so  joyful  that  my 
gaze  lifted  often.  On  the  very  last  day,  in  the 
afternoon  when  my  observers  were  most  and  noisiest, 
I  lifted  my  eyes  but  once  during  the  final  half- 
hour — but  such  a  once  that  was! 

The  edge  of  that  beautiful  grey  pongee  skirt  came 
upon  the  rim  of  my  lowered  eyelid  like  a  cool  shadow 
over  hot  sand.  A  sergent  had  just  made  many  of 
the  people  move  away,  so  there  remained  only  a 
thin  ring  of  the  laughing  pantaloons  about  me, 
when  this  divine  skirt  presented  its  apparition  te 
me.  A  pair  of  North-American  trousers  accom- 
panied it,  turned  up  to  show  the  ankle-bones  of  a 
rich  pair  of  stockings;  neat,  enthusiastic  and  humor- 
ous, I  judged  them  to  be;  for,  as  one  may  discover, 
my  only  amusement  during  my  martyrdom — if  this 
misery  can  be  said  to  possess  such  alleviatings — 
had  been  the  study  of  feet,  pantaloons,  and  skirts. 
The  trousers  in  this  case  detained  my  observation  no 
time.  They  were  but  the  darkest  corner  of  the 


84  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

chiaroscuro  of  a  Rembrandt — the    mellow    glow  of 
gold  was  all  across  the  grey  skirt. 

How  shall  I  explain  myself,  how  make  myself 
understood?  Shall  I  be  thought  sentimentalistic  or 
but  mad  when  I  declare  that  my  first  sight  of  the 
grey  pongee  skirt  caused  me  a  thrill  of  excitation, 
of  tenderness,  and — oh-i-me! — of  self -consciousness 
more  acute  than  all  my  former  mortifications.  It 
was  so  very  different  from  all  other  skirts  that  had 
shown  themselves  to  me  those  sad  days,  and  you  may 
understand  that,  though  the  pantaloons  far  out- 
numbered the  skirts,  many  hundreds  of  the  latter 
had  also  been  objects  of  my  gloomy  observa- 
tion. 

This  skirt,  so  unlike  those  which  had  passed, 
presented  at  once  the  qualifications  of  its  superiority. 
It  had  been  constructed  by  an  artist,  and  it  was 
worn  by  a  lady.  It  did  not  pine,  it  did  not  droop; 
there  was  no  more  an  atom  of  hanging  too  much 
than  there  was  a  portion  inflated  by  flamboyancy; 
it  did  not  assert  itself;  it  bore  notice  without  seeking 
it.  Plain  but  exquisite,  it  was  that  great  rarity- 
goodness  made  charming. 

The  peregrination  of  the  American  trousers  sud- 
denly stopped  as  they  caught  sight  of  me,  and  that 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  85 

precious  skirt  paused,  precisely  in  opposition  to 
my  little  table.  I  heard  a  voice,  that  to  which 
the  skirt  pertained.  It  spoke  the  English,  but  not 
in  the  manner  of  the  inhabitants  of  London,  who 
seem  to  sing  undistinguishably  in  their  talking, 
although  they  are  comprehensible  to  each  other. 
To  an  Italian  it  seems  that  many  North-Americans 
and  English  seek  too  often  the  assistance  of  the 
nose  in  talking,  though  in  different  manners,  each 
equally  inagreeable  to  our  ears.  The  intelligent 
among  our  lazzaroni  of  Naples,  who  beg  from  tourists, 
imitate  this,  with  the  purpose  of  reminding  the 
generous  traveller  of  his  home,  in  such  a  way  to 
soften  his  heart.  But  there  is  some  difference: 
the  Italian,  the  Frenchman,  or  German  who  learns 
English  sometimes  misunderstands  the  American: 
the  Englishman  he  sometimes  understands. 

This  voice  that  spoke  was  North- American.  Ah, 
what  a  voice!  Sweet  as  the  mandolins  of  Sorrento! 
Clear  as  the  bells  of  Caj>ri!  To  hear  it,  was  like 
coming  upon  sight  of  the  almond-blossoms  of  Sicily 
for  the  first  time,  or  the  tulip-fields  of  Holland. 
Never  before  was  such  a  voice! 

"Why  did  you  stop,  Rufus?"  it  said. 

"Look!"  replied  the  American  trousers;  so  that 


86  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

I  knew  the  pongee  lady  had  not  observed  me  of 
herself. 

Instantaneously  there  was  an  exclamation,  and 
a  pretty  grey  parasol,  closed,  fell  at  my  feet.  It  is 
not  the  pleasantest  to  be  an  object  which  causes 
people  to  be  startled  when  they  behold  you;  but  I 
blessed  the  agitation  of  this  lady,  for  what  caused 
her  parasol  to  fall  from  her  hand  was  a  start  of  pity. 

"Ah!"  she  cried.     "The  poor  man!" 

She  had  perceived  that  I  was  a  gentleman. 

I  bent  myself  forward  and  lifted  the  parasol, 
though  not  my  eyes — I  could  not  have  looked  up 
into  the  face  above  me  to  be  Caesar!  Two  hands 
came  down  into  the  circle  of  my  observation;  one 
of  these  was  that  belonging  to  the  trousers,  thin, 
long,  and  white;  the  other  was  the  grey -gloved  hand 
of  the  lady,  and  never  had  I  seen  such  a  hand — the 
hand  of  an  angel  in  a  suede  glove,  as  the  grey  skirt 
was  the  mantle  of  a  saint  made  by  Doucet.  I 
speak  of  saints  and  angels;  and  to  the  large  world 
these  may  sound  like  cold  words. — It  is  only  in  Italy 
where  some  people  are  found  to  adore  them  still. 

I  lifted  the  parasol  toward  that  glove  as  I  would 
have  moved  to  set  a  candle  on  an  altar.  Then,  at 
a  thought,  I  placed  it  not  in  the  glove,  but  in  the 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  87 

thin  hand  of  the  gentleman.  At  the  same  time 
the  voice  of  the  lady  spoke  to  me — I  was  to  have 
the  joy  of  remembering  that  this  voice  had  spoken 
four  words  to  me. 

"Je  vous  remercie,  monsieur, "  it  said. 

"Pas  de  quoi!"  I  murmured. 

The  American  trousers  in  a  loud  tone  made 
reference  in  the  idiom  to  my  miserable  head:  "Did 
you  ever  see  anything  to  beat  it?" 

The  beautiful  voice  answered,  and  by  the  gentle- 
ness of  her  sorrow  for  me  I  knew  she  had  no  thought 
that  I  might  understand.  "Come  away.  It  is  too 
pitiful!" 

Then  the  grey  skirt  and  the  little  round-toed  shoes 
beneath  it  passed  from  my  sight,  quickly  hidden 
from  me  by  the  increasing  crowd;  yet  I  heard  the 
voice  a  moment  more,  but  fragmentarily:  "Don't 
you  see  how  ashamed  he  is,  how  he  must  have  been 
starving  before  he  did  that,  or  that  some  one  depen- 
dent on  him  needed — " 

I  caught  no  more,  but  the  sweetness  that  this 
beautiful  lady  understood  and  felt  for  the  poor 
absurd  wretch  was  so  great  that  I  could  have  wept. 
I  had  not  seen  her  face;  I  had  not  looked  up — even 
when  she  went. 


88  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

"Who  is  she?"  cried  a  scoundrel  voyou,  just  as 
she  turned.  "Madame  of  the  parasol?  A  friend  of 
monsieur  of  the  ornamented  head?" 

"No.  It  is  the  first  lady  in  waiting  to  his  wife, 
Madame  la  Duchesse,"  answered  a  second.  "She 
has  been  sent  with  an  equerry  to  demand  of  monsei- 
gneur  if  he  does  not  wish  a  little  sculpture  upon  his 
dome  as  well  as  the  colour  decorations!" 

"'Tis  true,  my  ancient?"  another  asked  of  me. 

I  made  no  repartee,  continuing  to  sit  with  my 
chin  dependent  upon  my  cravat,  but  with  things 
not  the  same  in  my  heart  as  formerly  to  the  arrival 
of  that  grey  pongee,  the  grey  glove,  and  the  beau- 
tiful voice. 

Since  King  Charles  the  Mad,  in  Paris  no  one  has 
been  completely  free  from  lunacy  while  the  spring- 
time is  happening.  There  is  something  in  the  sun 
and  the  banks  of  the  Seine.  The  Parisians  drink 
sweet  and  fruity  champagne  because  the  good  wines 
are  already  in  their  veins.  These  Parisians  are 
born  intoxicated  and  remain  so;  it  is  not  fair  play 
to  require  them  to  be  like  other  human  people. 
Their  deepest  feeling  is  for  the  arts;  and,  as  every 
one  has  declared,  they  are  farceurs  in  their  trag- 
edies, tragic  in  their  comedies.  They  prepare  the 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  89 

last  epigram  in  the  tumbril;  they  drown  themselves 
with  enthusiasm  about  the  alliance  with  Russia. 
In  death  they  are  witty;  in  war  they  have  poetic 
spasms;  in  love  they  are  mad. 

The  strangest  of  all  this  is  that  it  is  not  only  the 
Parisians  who  are  the  insane  ones  in  Paris;  the 
visitors  are  none  of  them  in  behaviour  as  elsewhere. 
You  have  only  to  go  there  to  become  as  lunatic  as 
the  rest.  Many  travellers,  when  they  have  departed, 
remember  the  events  they  have  caused  there  as  a 
person  remembers  in  the  morning  what  he  has  said 
and  thought  in  the  moonlight  of  the  night. 

In  Paris  it  is  moonlight  even  in  the  morning;  and 
in  Paris  one  falls  in  love  even  more  strangely  than 
by  moonlight. 

It  is  a  place  of  glimpses:  a  veil  fluttering  from  a 
motor-car,  a  little  lace  handkerchief  fallen  from  a 
victoria,  a  figure  crossing  a  lighted  window,  a  black 
hat  vanishing  in  the  distance  of  the  avenues  of  the 
Tuileries.  A  young  man  writes  a  ballade  and  dreams 
over  a  bit  of  lace.  Was  I  not,  then,  one  of  the  least 
extravagant  of  this  mad  people?  Men  have  fallen 
in  love  with  photographs,  those  greatest  of  lairs; 
was  I  so  wild,  then,  to  adore  this  grey  skirt,  this 
small  shoe,  this  divine  glove,  the  golden-honey 


90  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

voice — of  all  in  Paris  the  only  one  to  pity  and  to 
understand?  Even  to  love  the  mystery  of  that 
lady  and  to  build  my  dreams  upon  it? — to  love  all 
the  more  because  of  the  mystery?  Mystery  is  the 
last  word  and  the  completing  charm  to  a  young 
man's  passion.  Few  sonnets  have  been  written  to 
wives  whose  matrimony  is  more  than  five  years  of 
age — is  it  not  so? 


CHAPTER  II 

'W'  "IT  yHEN  my  hour  was  finished  and  I  in 
\/  \/  liberty  to  leave  that  horrible  corner,  I 
pushed  out  of  the  crowd  and  walked 
down  the  boulevard,  my  hat  covering  my  sin,  and 
went  quickly.  To  be  in  love  with  my  mystery, 
I  thought,  that  was  a  strange  happiness!  It  was 
enough.  It  was  romance!  To  hear  a  voice  which 
speaks  two  sentences  of  pity  and  silver  is  to  have  a 
chime  of  bells  in  the  heart.  But  to  have  a  shaven 
head  is  to  be  a  monk!  And  to  have  a  shaven  head 
with  a  sign  painted  upon  it  is  to  be  a  pariah.  Alas! 
I  was  a  person  whom  the  Parisians  laughed  at,  not 
with! 

Now  that  at  last  my  martyrdom  was  concluded, 
I  had  some  shuddering,  as  when  one  places  in  his 
mouth  a  morsel  of  unexpected  flavour.  I  wondered 
where  I  had  found  the  courage  to  bear  it,  and  how 
I  had  resisted  hurling  myself  into  the  river,  though, 
as  is  known,  that  is  no  longer  safe,  for  most  of  those 

who  attempt  it  are  at  once  rescued,  arrested,  fined, 

91 


92  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

and  imprisoned  for  throwing  bodies  into  the  Seine, 
which  is  forbidden. 

At  the  theatre  the  frightful  badge  was  removed 
from  my  head-top  and  I  was  given  three  hundred 
francs,  the  price  of  my  shame,  refusing  an  offer  to 
repeat  the  performance  during  the  following  week. 
To  imagine  such  a  thing  made  me  a  choking  in  my 
throat,  and  I  left  the  bureau  in  some  sickness.  This 
increased  so  much  (as  I  approached  the  Madeleine, 
where  I  wished  to  mount  an  omnibus)  that  I  entered 
a  restaurant  and  drank  a  small  glass  of  cognac. 
Then  I  called  for  writing-papers  and  wrote  to  the 
good  Mother  Superior  and  my  dear  little  nieces  at 
their  convent.  I  enclosed  two  hundred  and  fifty 
francs,  ^*iucj|i  sum  I  had  fallen  behind  in  my  pay- 
ments for  their  education  and  sustenance,  and  I 
felt  a  moment's  happiness  that  at  least  for  a  while 
I  need  not  fear  that  my  poor  brother's  orphans 
might  become  objects  of  charity — a  fear  which, 
accompanied  by  my  own  hunger,  had  led  me  to 
become  the  joke  of  the  boulevards. 

Feejing  rich  with  my  remaining  fifty  francs,  I 
ordered  the  waiter  to  bring  me  a  goulasch  and  a 
carafe  of  blond  beer,  after  the  consummation  of 
which  I  spent  an  hour*  in  the  reading  of  a  news- 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  93 

paper.  Can  it  be  credited  that  the  journal  of  my 
perusement  was  the  one  which  may  be  called  the 
North- American  paper  of  the  aristocracies  of  Europe? 
Also,  it  contains  some  names  of  the  people  of  the 
United  States  at  the  hotels  and  elsewhere. 

How  eagerly  I  scanned  those  singular  columns! 
Shall  I  confess  to  what  purpose?  I  read  the  long 
lists  of  uncontinental  names  over  and  over,  but  I 
lingered  not  at  all  upon  those  like  "Muriel,"  "Her- 
mione,"  "Violet,"  and  "Sibyl,"  nor  over  "Balthurst," 
"Skeffington-Sligo,"  and  "Covering-Legge" ;  no,  my 
search  was  for  the  Sadies  and  Mamies,  the  Thomp- 
sons, Van  Dusens,  and  Bradys.  In  that  lies  my 
preposterous  secret. 

You  will  see  to  what  infatuation  those  words  of 
pity,  that  sense  of  a  beautiful  presence,  had  led  me. 
To  fall  in  love  must  one  behold  a  face?  Yes;  at 
thirty.  At  twenty,  when  one  is  something  of  a 
poet — No:  it  is  sufficient  to  see  a  grey  pongee  skirt! 
At  fifty,  when  one  is  a  philosopher — No:  it  is  enough 
to  perceive  a  soul!  I  had  done  both;  I  had  seen  the 
skirt;  I  had  perceived  the  soul!  Therefore,  while 
hungry,  I  neglected  my  goulasch  to  read  these  lists 
of  names  of  the  United  States  again  and  again, 
only  that  I  might  have  the  thought  that  one  of  them 


94  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

—though  I  knew  not  which — might  be  this  lady's, 
and  that  in  so  infinitesimal  a  degree  I  had  been  near 
her  again.  Will  it  be  estimated  extreme  imbecility 
in  me  when  I  ventured  the  additional  confession 
that  I  felt  a  great  warmth  and  tenderness  toward 
the  possessors  of  all  these  names,  as  being,  if  not 
herself,  at  least  her  compatriots? 

I  am  now  brought  to  the  admission  that  before 
to-day  I  had  experienced  some  prejudices  against 
the  inhabitants  of  the  North-American  republic, 
though  not  on  account  of  great  experience  of  my 
own.  A  year  previously  I  had  made  a  disastrous 
excursion  to  Monte  Carlo  in  the  company  of  a  young 
gentleman  of  London  who  had  been  for  several 
weeks  in  New  York  and  Washington  and  Boston, 
and  appeared  to  know  very  much  of  the  country. 
He  was  never  anything  but  tired  in  speaking  of  it, 
and  told  me  a  great  amount.  He  said  many  times 
that  in  the  hotels  there  was  never  a  concierge  or 
portier  to  give  you  information  where  to  discover 
the  best  vaudeville;  there  was  no  concierge  at  all! 
In  New  York  itself,  my  friend  told  me,  a  facchino, 
or  species  of  porter,  or  some  such  good-for-nothing, 
had  said  to  him,  including  a  slap  on  the  shoulder, 
"Well,  brother,  did  you  receive  your  delayed  luggage 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  95 

correctly?"  (In  this  instance  my  studies  of  the 
North-American  idiom  lead  me  to  believe  that  my 
friend  was  intentionally  truthful  in  regard  to  the 
principalities,  but  mistaken  in  his  observation  of 
detail.)  He  declared  the  recent  willingness  of  the 
English  to  take  some  interest  in  the  United-State- 
sians  to  be  a  mistake;  for  they  were  noisy,  without 
real  confidence  in  themselves;  they  were  restless  and 
merely  imitative  instead  of  inventive.  He  told  me 
that  he  was  not  exceptional;  all  Englishmen  had 
thought  similarly  for  fifty  or  sixty  years;  therefore, 
naturally,  his  opinion  carried  great  weight  with  me. 
And  myself,  to  my  astonishment,  I  had  often  seen 
parties  of  these  republicans  become  all  ears  and 
whispers  when  somebody  called  a  prince  or  a  countess 
passed  by.  Their  reverence  for  age  itself,  in  any- 
thing but  a  horse,  had  often  surprised  me  by  its 
artlessness,  and  of  all  strange  things  in  the  world, 
I  have  heard  them  admire  old  customs  and  old 
families.  It  was  strange  to  me  to  listen,  when  I 
had  believed  that  their  land  was  the  only  one  where 
happily  no  person  need  worry  to  remember  who  had 
been  his  great-grandfather. 

The  greatest  of  my  own  had  not  saved  me  from  the 
decoration  of  the  past  week,  yet  he  was  as  much 


96  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

mine  as  he  was  Antonio  Caravacioli's;  and  Anto- 
nio, though  impoverished,  had  his  motor-car  and 
dined  well,  since  I  happened  to  see,  in  my  perusal 
of  the  journal,  that  he  had  been  to  dinner  the  evening 
before  at  the  English  Embassy  with  a  great  company. 
"Bravo,  Antonio!  Find  a  rich  foreign  wife  if  you 
can,  since  you  cannot  do  well  for  yourself  at  home!" 
And  I  could  say  so  honestly,  without  spite,  for  all 
his  hatred  of  me, — because,  until  I  had  paid  my 
addition,  I  was  still  the  possessor  of  fifty  francs! 

Fifty  francs  will  continue  life  in  the  body  of  a 
judicial  person  a  long  time  in  Paris,  and  combining 
that  knowledge  and  the  good  goulasch,  I  sought 
diligently  for  "Mamies"  and  "Sadies"  with  a  revived 
spirit.  I  found  neither  of  those  adorable  names — 
in  fact,  only  two  such  diminutives,  which  are  more 
charming  than  our  Italian  ones:  a  Miss  Jeanie  Archi- 
bald Zip  and  a  Miss  Fannie  Sooter.  None  of  the 
names  was  harmonious  with  the  grey  pongee — in 
truth,  most  of  them  were  no  prettier  (however  less 
processional)  than  royal  names.  I  could  not  please 
myself  that  I  had  come  closer  to  the  rare  lady;  I 
must  be  contented  that  the  same  sky  covered  us 
botk,  that  the  noise  of  the  same  city  rang  in  her 
ears  as  in  mine. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  97 

Yet  that  was  a  satisfaction,  and  to  know  that  it 
was  true  gave  me  mysterious  breathlessness  and 
made  me  hear  fragments  of  old  songs  during  my  walk 
that  night.  I  walked  very  far,  under  the  trees  of 
the  Bois,  where  I  stopped  for  a  few  moments  to 
smoke  a  cigarette  at  one  of  the  tables  outside,  at 
Armenonville.  None  of  the  laughing  women  there 
could  be  the  lady  I  sought;  and  as  my  refusing  to 
command  anything  caused  the  waiter  uneasiness,  in 
spite  of  my  prosperous  appearance,  I  remained  but 
a  few  moments,  then  trudged  on,  all  the  long  way 
to  the  Caf£  de  Madrid,  where  also  she  was  not. 

How  did  I  assure  myself  of  this  since  I  had  not 
seen  her  face?  I  cannot  tell  you.  Perhaps  I  should 
not  have  known  her;  but  that  night  I  was  sure  that 
I  should. 

Yes,  as  sure  of  that  as  I  was  sure  that  she  was 
beautiful! 


CHAPTER  III 

NEARLY  the  whole  of  the  next  day,  endeav- 
ouring to  look  preoccupied,  I  haunted  the 
lobbies  and  vicinity  of  the  most  expensive 
hotels,  unable  to  do  any  other  thing,  but  ashamed 
of  myself  that  I  had  not  returned  to  my  former 
task  of  seeking  employment,  although  still  reassured 
by  possession  of  two  louis  and  some  silver.    I  dined 
well  at  a  one-franc  coachman's  restaurant,  where  my 
elegance  created  not  the  slightest  surprise,  and  I  felt 
that  I  might  live  in  this  way  indefinitely. 

However,  dreams  often  conclude  abruptly,  and 
two  louis  always  do,  as  I  found,  several  days  later, 
when,  after  paying  the  rent  for  my  unspeakable 
lodging  and  lending  twenty  francs  to  a  poor,  bad 
painter,  whom  I  knew  and  whose  wife  was  ill,  I 
found  myself  with  the  choice  of  obtaining  funds  on 
my  finery  or  not  eating,  either  of  which  I  was  very 
loath  to  do.  It  is  not  essential  for  me  to  tell  any 

person  that  when  you  seek  a  position  it  is  better 

98 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  99 

that  you  appear  not  too  greatly  in  need  of  it;  and 
my  former  garments  had  prejudiced  many  against 
me,  I  fear,  because  they  had  been  patched  by  a 
friendly  concierge.  Pantaloons  suffer  as  terribly  as 
do  antiques  from  too  obvious  restorations;  and  while 
I  was  only  grateful  to  the  good  woman's  needle 
(except  upon  one  occasion  when  she  forgot  to  remove 
it),  my  costume  had  reached,  at  last,  great  sympa- 
thies for  the  shade  of  Praxiteles,  feeling  the  same 
melancholy  over  original  intentions  so  far  misrep- 
resented by  renewals. 

Therefore  I  determined  to  preserve  my  fineries 
to  the  uttermost;  and  it  was  fortunate  that  I  did  so; 
because,  after  dining  for  three  nights  upon  nothing 
but  looking  out  of  my  window,  the  fourth  morning 
brought  me  a  letter  from  my  English  friend.  I  had 
written  to  him,  asking  if  he  knew  of  any  people  who 
wished  to  pay  a  salary  to  a  young  man  who  knew 
how  to  do  nothing.  I  place  his  reply  in  direct 
annexation: 

"HENRIETTA  STREET,  CAVENDISH  SQUARE,  May  14. 

"My  DEAR  ANSOLINI, — Why  haven't  you  made 
some  of  your  relatives  do  something?  I  under- 
stand that  they  do  not  like  you;  neither  do  my  own, 
but  after  our  crupper  at  Monte  Carlo  what  could 


100  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

mine  do,  except  provide?  If  a  few  pounds  (precious 
few,  I  fear!)  be  of  any  service  to  you,  let  me  know. 
In  the  mean  time,  if  you  are  serious  about  a  position, 
I  may,  preposterously  enough,  set  you  in  the  way  of 
it.  There  is  an  old  thundering  Yankee  here,  whom 
I  met  in  the  States,  and  who  believed  me  a  god 
because  I  am  the  nephew  of  my  awful  uncle,  for 
whose  career  he  has  ever  had,  it  appears,  a  life-long 
admiration,  sir!  Now,  by  chance,  meeting  this 
person  in  the  street,  it  developed  that  he  has  need  of 
a  man,  precisely  such  a  one  as  you  are  not:  a  sober, 
tutorish,  middle-aged,  dissenting  parson,  to  trot 
about  the  Continent  tied  to  a  dancing  bear.  It  is 
the  old  gentleman's  cub,  who  is  a  species  of  Caliban 
in  fine  linen,  and  who  has  taken  a  few  too  many 
liberties  in  the  land  of  the  free.  In  fact,  I  believe 
he  is  much  a  youth  of  my  own  kind  with  similar 
admiration  for  baccarat  and  good  cellars.  His 
father  must  return  at  once,  and  has  decided  (the 
cub's  native  heath  and  friends  being  too  wild)  to 
leave  him  in  charge  of  a  proper  guide,  philosopher, 
courier,  chaplain,  and  friend,  if  such  can  be  found, 
the  same  required  to  travel  with  the  cub  and  keep 
him  out  of  mischief.  I  thought  of  your  letter  directly, 
and  I  have  given  you  the  most  tremendous  recom- 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  101 

mendation — part  of  it  quite  true,  I  suspect,  though 
1  am  not  a  judge  of  learning.  I  explained,  however, 
that  you  are  a  master  of  languages,  of  elegant 
though  subdued  deportment,  and  I  extolled  at 
length  your  saintly  habits.  Altogether,  I  fear  there 
may  have  been  too  much  of  the  virtuoso  in  my 
interpretation  of  you;  few  would  have  recognized 
from  it  the  gentleman  who  closed  a  table  at  Monte 
Carlo  and  afterwards  was  closed  himself  in  the 
handsome  and  spectacular  fashion  I  remember  with 
both  delight  and  regret.  Briefly,  I  lied  like  a  master. 
He  almost  had  me  in  the  matter  of  your  age;  it  was 
important  that  you  should  be  middle-aged.  I 
swore  that  you  were  at  least  thirty-eight,  but, 
owing  to  exemplary  habits,  looked  very  much 
younger.  The  cub  himself  is  twenty -four. 

"Hence,  if  you  are  really  serious  and  determined 
not  to  appeal  to  your  people,  call  at  once  upon  Mr. 
Lambert  R.  Poor,  at  the  Hotel  d'lena.  He  is  the 
father,  and  the  cub  is  with  him.  The  elder  Yankee 
is  primed  with  my  praises  of  you,  and  must  engage 
some  one  at  <mce9  as  he  sails  in  a  day  or  two.  Go— 
with  my  blessing,  an  air  of  piety,  and  as  much  age 
as  you  can  assume.  When  the  father  has  departed, 
throw  the  cub  into  the  Seine,  but  preserve  his 


102  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

pocket-book,,  and  we  shall  have  another  go  at  those 
infernal  tables.     Vale!  J.  G.  S." 


I  found  myself  smiling — I  fear  miserably — over 
this  kind  letter,  especially  at  the  wonder  of  my 
friend  that  I  had  not  appealed  to  my  relatives. 
The  only  ones  who  would  have  liked  to  help  me,  if 
they  had  known  I  needed  something,  were  my  two 
little  nieces  who  were  in  my  own  care;  because  my 
father,  being  but  a  poet,  had  no  family,  and  my 
mother  had  lost  hers,  even  her  eldest  son,  by  marry- 
ing my  father.  After  that  they  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  her,  nor  were  they  asked.  That  ras- 
cally old  Antonio  was  now  the  head  of  all  the  Cara- 
vacioli,  as  was  I  of  my  own  outcast  branch  of  our 
house — that  is,  of  my  two  little  nieces  and  myself. 
It  was  partly  of  these  poor  infants  I  had  thought 
when  I  took  what  was  left  of  my  small  inheritance 
to  Monte  Carlo,  hoping,  since  I  seemed  to  be  in- 
capable of  increasing  it  in  any  other  way,  that 
number  seventeen  and  black  would  hand  me  over  a 
fortune  as  a  waiter  does  wine.  Alas!  Luck  is  not 
always  a  fool's  servant,  and  the  kind  of  fortune  she 
handed  me  was  of  that  species  the  waiter  brings 
you  in  the  other  bottle  of  champagne,  the  gold  of  a 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  103 

bubbling  brain,  lasting  an  hour.  After  this  there 
is  always  something  evil  to  one's  head,  and  mine, 
alas!  was  shaved. 

Half  an  hour  after  I  had  read  the  letter,  the  little 
paper-flower  makers  in  the  attic  window  across 
from  mine  may  have  seen  me  shaving  it — without 
pleasure — again.  What  else  was  I  to  do?  I  could 
not  well  expect  to  be  given  the  guardianship  of  an 
erring  young  man  if  I  presented  myself  to  his  parent 
as  a  gentleman  who  had  been  sitting  at  the  Cafe 
de  la  Paix  with  his  head  painted.  I  could  not 
wear  my  hat  through  the  interview.  I  could  not 
exhibit  the  thick  five  days'  stubble,  to  appear  in 
contrast  with  the  heavy  fringe  that  had  been 
spared; — I  could  not  trim  the  fringe  to  the  shortness 
of  the  stubble;  I  should  have  looked  like  Pierrot. 
I  had  only,  then,  to  remain  bald,  and,  if  I  obtained 
the  post,  to  shave  in  secret — a  harmless  and  mournful 
imposition. 

It  was  well  for  me  that  I  came  to  this  determina- 
tion. I  believe  it  was  the  appearance  of  maturity 
which  my  head  and  dining  upon  thoughts  lent  me, 
as  much  as  my  friend's  praises,  which  created  my 
success  with  the  amiable  Mr.  Lambert  R.  Poor.  I 
witness  that  my  visit  to  him  provided  one  of  the 


104  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

most  astonishing  interviews  of  my  life.  He  was  an 
instance  of  those  strange  beings  of  the  Western 
republic,  at  whom  we  are  perhaps  too  prone  to  pass 
from  one  of  ourselves  to  another  the  secret  smile, 
because  of  some  little  imperfections  of  manner.  It 
is  a  type  which  has  grown  more  and  more  familiar 
to  us,  yet  never  less  strange:  the  man  in  costly  but 
severe  costume,  big,  with  a  necessary  great  waist- 
coat, not  noticing  the  loudness  of  his  own  voice;  as 
ignorant  of  the  thousand  tiny  things  which  we 
observe  and  feel  as  he  would  be  careless  of  them 
(except  for  his  wife)  if  he  knew.  We  laugh  at  him, 
sometimes  even  to  his  face,  and  he  does  not  perceive 
it.  We  are  a  little  afraid  that  he  is  too  large  to 
see  it;  hence  too  large  for  us  to  comprehend,  and  in 
spite  of  our  laughter  we  are  always  conscious  of  a 
force — yes,  of  a  presence!  We  jeer  slyly,  but  we 
respect,  fear  a  little,  and  would  trust. 

Such  was  my  patron.  He  met  me  with  a  kind 
greeting,  looked  at  me  very  earnestly,  but  smiling 
as  if  he  understood  my  good  intentions,  as  one 
understands  the  friendliness  of  a  capering  poodle, 
yet  in  such  a  way  that  I  could  not  feel  resentment, 
for  I  could  see  that  he  looked  at  almost  every  one 
in  the  same  fashion. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  105 

My  friend  had  done  wonders  for  me;  and  I  made 
the  best  account  of  myself  that  I  could,  so  that 
within  half  an  hour  it  was  arranged  that  I  should 
take  charge  of  his  son,  with  an  honorarium  which 
gave  me  great  rejoicing  for  my  nieces  and  my  ac- 
cumulated appetite. 

"I  think  I  can  pick  men,"  he  said,  "and  I  think 
that  you  are  the  man  I  want.  You're  old  enough  and 
you've  seen  enough,  and  you  know  enough  to 
keep  one  fool  boy  in  order  for  six  months." 

So  frankly  he  spoke  of  his  son,  yet  not  without 
affection  and  confidence.  Before  I  left,  he  sent  for 
the  youth  himself,  Lambert  R.  Poor,  Jr., — not  at 
all  a  Caliban,  but  a  most  excellent-appearing,  tall 
gentleman,  of  astonishingly  meek  countenance.  He 
gave  me  a  sad,  slow  look  from  his  blue  eyes  at  first; 
then  with  a  brightening  smile  he  gently  shook  my 
hand,  murmuring  that  he  was  very  glad  in  the 
prospect  of  knowing  me  better;  after  which  the 
parent  defined  before  him,  with  singular  elaboration, 
my  duties.  I  was  to  correct  all  things  in  his  behavior 
which  I  considered  improper  or  absurd.  I  was  to 
dictate  the  line  of  travel,  to  have  a  restraining 
influence  upon  expenditures;  in  brief,  to  control  the 
young  man  as  a  governess  does  a  child. 


106  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

To  all  of  his  parent's  instructions  Poor  Jr.  returned 
a  dutiful  nod  and  expressed  perfect  acquiescence. 
The  following  day  the  elder  sailed  from  Cherbourg, 
and  I  took  up  my  quarters  with  the  son. 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  is  with  the  most  extreme  mortification  that 
I  record  my  ensuing  experiences,  for  I  felt  that 
I  could  not  honourably  accept  my  salary 
without  earning  it  by  carrying  out  the  parent  Poor's 
wishes.  That  first  morning  I  endeavoured  te  direct 
my  pupil's  steps  toward  the  Musee  de  Cluny,  with 
the  purpose  of  inciting  him  to  instructive  study; 
but  in  the  mildest,  yet  most  immovable  manner, 
he  proposed  Longchamps  and  the  races  as  a  sub- 
stitute, to  conclude  with  dinner  at  La  Cascade  and 
supper  at  Maxim's  or  the  Cafe  Blanche,  in  case  we 
should  meet  engaging  company.  I  ventured  the 
vainest  efforts  to  reason  with  him,  making  for  myself 
a  very  uncomfortable  breakfast,  though  without 
effect  upon  him  of  any  visibility.  His  air  was 
uninterruptedly  mild  and  modest;  he  rarely  lifted 
his  eyes,  but  to  my  most  earnest  argument  replied 
only  by  ordering  more  eggs  and  saying  in  a  chas- 
tened voice: 

"Oh  no;  it  is  always  best  to  begin  school  with  a 

vacation.     To  Longchamps — we!" 

107 


108  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

I  should  say  at  once  that  through  this  young 
man  I  soon  became  an  amateur  of  the  remarkable 
North-American  idioms,  of  humour  and  incom- 
parable brevities  often  more  interesting  than  those 
evolved  by  the  thirteen  or  more  dialects  of  my  own 
Naples.  Even  at  our  first  breakfast  I  began  to 
catch  lucid  glimpses  of  the  intention  in  many  of  his 
almost  incomprehensible  statements.  I  was  able, 
even,  to  penetrate  his  meaning  when  he  said  that 
although  he  was  "strong  for  aged  parent,"  he  himself 
had  suffered  much  anguish  from  overwork  of  the 
"earnest  youth  racquette"  in  his  late  travels,  and 
now  desired  to  "create  considerable  trouble  for 
Paris." 

Naturally,  I  did  not  wish  to  begin  by  antagonizing 
my  pupil — an  estrangement  at  the  commencement 
would  only  lead  to  his  deceiving  me,  or  a  continued 
quarrel,  in  which  case  I  should  be  of  no  service  to 
my  kind  patron,  so  that  after  a  strained  interval 
I  considered  it  best  to  surrender. 

We  went  to  Longchamps. 

That  was  my  first  mistake;  the  second  was  to 
yield  to  him  concerning  the  latter  part  of  his  pro- 
gramme; but  opposition  to  Mr.  Poor  Jr.  had  a 
curious  effect  of  inutility.  He  had  not  in  the  least 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  109 

the  air  of  obstinacy, — nothing  could  have  been  less 
like  rudeness;  he  neither  frowned  nor  smiled;  no,  he 
did  not  seem  even  to  be  insisting;  on  the  contrary, 
never  have  I  beheld  a  milder  countenance,  nor  heard 
a  pleasanter  voice;  yet  the  young  man  was  so  com- 
pletely baffling  in  his  mysterious  way  that  I  con- 
sidered him  unique  to  my  experience. 

Thus,  when  I  urged  him  not  to  place  large  wagers 
in  the  pesage,  his  whispered  reply  was  strange  and 
simple — "Watch  me!"  This  he  conclusively  said  as 
he  deposited  another  thousand-franc  note,  which, 
within  a  few  moments,  accrued  to  the  French 
Government. 

Longchamps  was  but  the  beginning  of  a  series  of 
days  and  nights  which  wore  upon  my  constitution — 
not  indeed  with  the  intensity  of  mortification  which 
my  former  conspicuosity  had  engendered,  yet  my 
sorrows  were  stringent.  It  is  true  that  I  had  been, 
since  the  age  of  seventeen,  no  stranger  to  the  gaieties 
and  dissipations  afforded  by  the  capitals  of  Europe; 
I  may  say  I  had  exhausted  these,  yet  always  with 
some  degree  of  quiet,  including  intervals  of  repose. 
I  was  tired  of  all  the  great  foolishnesses  of  youth, 
and  had  thought  myself  done  with  them.  Now  I 
found  myself  plunged  into  more  uproarious  waters 


110  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

than  I  had  ever  known — I,  who  had  hoped  to  begin 
a  life  of  usefulness  and  peace,  was  forced  to  dwell  in 
the  midst  of  a  riot,  pursuing  my  extraordinary  charge. 

There  is  no  need  that  I  should  describe  those 
days  and  nights.  They  remain  in  my  memory  as  a 
confusion  of  bad  music,  crowds,  motor-cars  and 
champagne  of  which  Poor  Jr.  was  a  distributing 
centre.  He  could  never  be  persuaded  to  the  Louvre, 
the  Carnavalet,  or  the  Luxembourg;  in  truthj  he 
seldom  rose  in  time  to  reach  the  museums,  for 
they  usually  close  at  four  in  the  afternoon.  Always 
with  the  same  inscrutable  meekness  of  countenance, 
each  night  he  methodically  danced  the  cake-walk 
at  Maxim's  or  one  of  the  Montmartre  restaurants, 
to  the  cheers  of  acquaintances  of  many  nationalities, 
to  whom  he  offered  libations  with  prodigal  enormity. 
He  carried  with  him,  about  the  boulevards  at  night, 
in  the  highly  powerful  car  he  had  hired,  large 
parties  of  strange  people,  who  would  loudly  sing 
airs  from  the  Folie-Rouge  (to  my  unhappy  shudder- 
ings)  all  the  way  from  the  fatiguing  Bal  Bullier  to 
the  Cafe  de  Paris,  where  the  waiters  soon  became 
affluent. 

And  how  many  of  those  gaily  dressed  and  smiling 
ladies  whose  bright  eyes  meet  yours  on  tibe  veranda 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  111 

of  the  Theatre  Marigny  were  provided  with  excessive 
suppers  and  souvenir  fans  by  the  inexhaustible 
Poor  Jr.!  He  left  a  trail  of  pink  hundred-franc 
notes  behind  him,  like  a  running  boy  dropping 
paper  in  the  English  game;  and  he  kept  showers  of 
gold  louis  dancing  in  the  air  about  him,  so  that  when 
we  entered  the  various  cafes  or  "American  bars"  a 
cheer  (not  vocal  but  to  me  of  perfect  audibility) 
went  up  from  the  hungry  and  thirsty  and  borrowing, 
and  from  the  attendants.  Ah,  how  tired  I  was  of  it, 
and  how  I  endeavoured  to  discover  a  means  to 
draw  him  to  the  museums,  and  to  Notre  Dame  and 
the  Pantheon! 

And  how  many  times  did  I  unwillingly  find  my- 
self in  the  too  enlivening  company  of  those  pretty 
supper-girls,  and  what  jokings  upon  his  head-top 
did  the  poor  bald  gentleman  not  undergo  from  those 
same  demoiselles  with  the  bright  eyes,  the  wonderful 
hats,  and  the  fluffy  dresses ! 

How  often  among  those  gay  people  did  I  find 
myself  sadly  dreaming  of  that  grey  pongee  skirt  and 
the  beautiful  heart  that  had  understood!  Should 
I  ever  see  that  lady?  Not,  I  knew,  alas!  in  the 
whirl  about  Poor  Jr.!  As  soon  look  for  a  nun  at 
the  Cafe  Blanche! 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

For  some  reason  I  came  to  be  persuaded  that 
she  had  left  Paris,  that  she  had  gone  away;  and  I 
pictured  her — a  little  despairingly — on  the  borders 
of  Lucerne,  with  the  white  Alps  in  the  sky  above 
her, — or  perhaps  listening  to  the  evening  songs  on 
the  Grand  Canal,  and  I  would  try  to  feel  the  little 
rocking  of  her  gondola,  making  myself  dream  that 
I  sat  at  her  feet.  Or  I  could  see  the  grey  flicker  of 
the  pongee  skirt  in  the  twilight  distance  of  cathedral 
aisles  with  a  chant  sounding  from  a  chapel;  and,  so 
dreaming,  I  would  start  spasmodically,  to  hear  the 
red-coated  orchestra  of  a  cafe  blare  out  into  "Be- 
delia,"  and  awake  to  the  laughter  and  rouge  and 
blague  which  that  dear  pongee  had  helped  me  for 
a  moment  to  forget! 

To  all  places  Poor  Jr.,  though  never  unkindly, 
dragged  me  with  him,  even  to  make  the  balloon 
ascent  at  the  Porte  Maillot  on  a  windy  evening. 
Without  embarrassment  I  confess  that  I  was  terrified, 
that  I  clung  to  the  ropes  with  a  clutch  which  frayed 
my  gloves,  while  Poor  Jr.  leaned  back  against  the 
side  of  the  basket  and  gazed  upward  at  the  great 
swaying  ball,  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  humming 
the  strange  ballad  that  was  his  favorite  musical  com- 
position: 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  113 

"The  prettiest  girl  I  ever  saw 
Was  sipping  cider  through  a  straw-aw-haw!" 

In  that  horrifying  basket,  scrambling  for  a  foot- 
hold while  it  swung  through  arcs  that  were  gulfs, 
I  believed  that  my  sorrows  approached  a  sudden 
conclusion,  but  finding  myself  again  upon  the  secure 
earth,  I  decided  to  come  to  an  Tinderstanding  with 
the  young  man. 

Accordingly,  on  the  following  morning,  I  entered 
Us  apartment  and  addressed  myself  to  Poor  Jr.  as 
severely  as  I  could  (for,  truthfully,  in  all  his  follies  I 
had  found  no  ugliness  in  hi,f  spirit — oely  a  good- 
natured  and  inscrutable  desi:  e  of  wild  amusement), 
reminding  him  of  the  aut  lority  his  father  had 
deputed  to  me,  and  having  the  venturesomeness  to 
hint  that  the  son  should  show  some  respect  to  my 
superior  age. 

To  my  consternation  he  replied  by  inquiring  if  I 
had  shaved  my  head  as  yet  that  morning.  I  could 
only  drop  in  a  chair,  stammering  to  know  what  he 
meant. 

"Didn't  you  suppose  I  knew?"  he  asked,  elevating 
himself  slightly  on  his  elbow  from  the  pillow. 
"Three  weeks  ago  I  left  my  aged  parent  in  London 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

and  ran  over  here  for  a  day.  I  saw  you  at  the 
Cafe  de  la  Paix,  and  even  then  I  knew  that  it  was 
shaved,  not  naturally  bald.  When  you  came  here 
I  recognized  you  like  a  shot,  and  that  was  why  I 
was  glad  to  accept  you  as  a  guardian.  I've  enjoyed 
myself  considerably  of  late,  and  you've  been  the  best 
part  of  it, — I  think  you  are  a  wonderation!  I 
wouldn't  have  any  other  governess  for  the  world, 
but  you  surpass  the  orchestra  when  you  beg  me  to 
respect  your  years!  I  will  bet  you  four  dollars  to 
a  lead  franc  piece  that  you  are  younger  than  I  am!" 

Imagine  the  completeness  of  my  dismay!  Al- 
thougli  he  spoke  in  tones  the  most  genial,  and  without 
unkindness,  I  felt  myself  a  man  of  tatters  before  him, 
ashamed  to  have  him  know  my  sorry  secret,  hope- 
less to  see  all  chance  of  authority  over  him  gone  at 
once,  and  with  it  my  opportunity  to  earn  a  salary 
so  generous,  for  if  I  could  continue  to  be  but  an 
amusement  to  him  and  only  part  of  his  deception  of 
Lambert  R.  Poor,  my  sense  of  honour  must  be  fit  for 
the  guillotine  indeed. 

I  had  a  little  struggle  with  myself,  and  I  think  I 
must  have  wiped  some  amount  of  the  cold  perspira- 
tion from  my  absurd  head  before  I  was  able  to  make 
an  answer.  It  may  be  seen  what  a  coward  I  was, 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  115 

and  how  I  feared  to  begin  again  that  search  for 
employment.  At  last,  however,  I  was  in  self-control, 
so  that  I  might  speak  without  being  afraid  that  my 
voice  would  shake. 

"I  am  sorry,"  I  said.  "It  seemed  to  me  that 
my  deception  would  not  cause  any  harm,  and  that 
I  might  be  useful  in  spite  of  it — enough  to  earn  my 
living.  It  was  on  account  of  my  being  very  poor; 
and  there  are  two  little  children  I  must  take  care 
of. — Well,  at  least,  it  is  over  now.  I  have  had  great 
shame,  but  I  must  not  have  greater." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked  me,  rather 
sharply. 

"I  will  leave  immediately,"  I  said,  going  to  the 
door.  "Since  I  am  no  more  than  a  joke,  I  can  be  of 
no  service  to  your  father  or  to  you;  but  you  must 
not  think  that  I  am  so  unreasonable  as  to  be  angry 
with  you.  A  man  whom  you  have  beheld  reduced 
to  what  I  was,  at  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix,  is  surely  a  joke 
to  the  whole  world!  I  will  write  to  your  father 
before  I  leave  the  hotel  and  explain  that  I  feel 
myself  unqualified— 

"You're  going  to  write  to  him  why  you  give  it 
up!"  he  exclaimed. 

"I  shall  make  no  report  of  espionage,"  I  answered, 


116  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

with,  perhaps,  some  bitterness,  "and  I  will  leave  the 
letter  for  you  to  read  and  to  send,  of  yourself.  It 
shall  only  tell  him  that  as  a  man  of  honour  I  cannot 
keep  a  position  for  which  I  have  no  qualification.** 

I  was  going  to  open  the  door,  bidding  him  adieu, 
when  he  called  out  to  me. 

"Look  here!"  he  said,  and  he  jumped  out  of  bed 
in  his  pyjamas  and  came  quickly,  and  held  out  his 
hand.  "Look  here,  Ansolini,  don't  take  it  that  way. 
I  know  you've  had  pretty  hard  times,  and  if  you'll 
stay,  I'll  get  good.  I'll  go  to  the  Louvre  with  you 
this  afternoon;  we'll  dine  at  one  of  the  Duval  restau- 
rants, and  go  to  that  new  religious  tragedy  after- 
wards. If  you  like,  we'll  leave  Paris  to-morrow. 
There's  a  little  too  much  movement  here,  maybe. 
For  God's  sake  let  your  hair  grow,  and  we'll  go 
down  to  Italy  and  study  bones  and  ruins  and  delight 
the  aged  parent! — It's  all  right,  isn't  it?" 

I  shook  the  hand  of  that  kind  Poor  Jr.  with  a 
feeling  in  my  heart  that  kept  me  from  saying  how 
greatly  I  thanked  him — and  I  was  sure  that  I  could 
do  anything  for  him  in  the  world! 


CHAPTER  V 

THREE  days  later  saw  us  on  the  pretty 
waters  of  Lake  Leman,  in  the  bright 
weather  when  Mont  Blanc  heaves  his 
great  bare  shoulder  of  ice  miles  into  the  blue  sky, 
with  no  mist-cloak  about  him.  Sailing  that  lake 
in  the  cool  morning,  what  a  contrast  to  -  the  cham- 
pagne houp-la  nights  of  Paris!  And  how  docile  was 
my  pupil!  He  suffered  me  to  lead  him  through  the 
Castle  of  Chillon  like  a  new-born  lamb,  and  even 
would  not  play  the  little  horses  in  the  Kursaal  at 
Geneva,  although,  perhaps,  that  was  because  the 
stakes  were  not  high  enough  to  interest  him.  He 
was  nearly  always  silent,  and,  from  the  moment  of 
our.  departure  from  Paris,  had  fallen  into  dreamful- 
ness,  such  as  would  come  over  myself  at  the  thought 
of  the  beautiful  lady.  It  touched  my  heart  to  find 
how  he  was  ready  with  acquiescence  to  the  slightest 
suggestion  of  mine,  and,  if  it  had  been  the  season, 
I  'am  almost  credulous  that  I  could  have  conducted 

him  to  Baireuth  to  hear  Parsifal! 

117 


118  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

There  were  times  when  his  mood  of  gentle  sorrow 
was  so  like  mine  that  I  wondered  if  he,  too,  knew 
a  grey  pongee  skirt.  I  wondered  over  this  so  much, 
and  so  marvellingly,  also,  because  of  the  change  in 
him,  that  at  last  I  asked  him. 

We  had  gone  to  Lucerne;  it  was  clear  moonlight, 
and  we  smoked  on  our  little  balcony  at  the  Schweit- 
zerhof,  puffing  our  small  clouds  in  the  enormous  face 
of  the  strangest  panorama  of  the  world,  that  august 
disturbation  of  the  earth  by  gods  in  battle,  left  to  be 
a  land  of  tragic  fables  since  before  Pilate  was  there, 
and  remaining  the  same  after  William  Tell  was  not. 
I  sat  looking  up  at  the  mountains,  and  he  leaned  on 
the  rail,  looking  down  at  the  lake.  Somewhere  a 
woman  was  singing  from  Pagliaeci,  and  I  slowly 
arrived  at  a  consciousness  that  I  had  sighed  aloud 
once  or  twice,  not  so  much  sadly,  as  of  longing  to 
see  that  lady,  and  that  my  companion  had  per- 
mitted similar  sounds  to  escape  him,  but  more 
mournfully.  It  was  then  that  I  asked  him,  in  ear- 
nestness, yet  with  the  manner  of  making  a  joke,  if 
he  did  not  think  often  of  some  one  in  North 
America. 

"Do  you  believe  that  could  be,  and  I  making  the 
disturbance  I  did  in  Paris?"  he  returned. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  119 

"Yes,"  I  told  him,  "if  you  are  trying  to  forget 
her." 

"I  should  think  it  might  look  more  as  if  I  were 
trying  to  forget  that  I  wasn't  good  enough  for  her 
and  that  she  knew  it!" 

He  spoke  in  a  voice  which  he  would  have  made 
full  of  ease — "off-hand,"  as  they  say;  but  he  failed 
to  do  so. 

"That  was  the  case?"  I  pressed  him,  you  see,  but 
smilingly. 

"Looks  a  good  deal  like  it,"  he  replied,  smoking 
much  at  once. 

"So?    But  that  is  good  for  you,  my  friend!" 

"Probably."  He  paused,  smoking  still  more,  and 
then  said,  "It's  a  benefit  I  could  get  on  just  as  well 
without." 

"She  is  in  North  America?" 

"No;  over  here." 

"Ah!  Then  we  will  go  where  she  is.  That  will 
be  even  better  for  you!  Where  is  she?" 

"I  don't  know.  She  asked  me  not  to  follow  her. 
Somebody  else  is  doing  that." 

The  young  man's  voice  was  steady,  and  his  face, 
as  usual,  showed  no  emotion,  but  I  should  have 
been  an  Italian  for  nothing  had  I  not  understood 


120  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

quickly.  So  I  waited  for  a  little  while,  then  spoke 
of  old  Pilatus  out  there  in  the  sky,  and  we  went  to 
bed  very  late,  for  it  was  our  last  night  in  Lucerne. 

Two  days 'later  we  roared  our  way  out  of  the 
gloomy  St.  Gotthard  and  wound  down  the  pass,  out 
into  the  sunshine  of  Italy,  into  that  broad  plain  of 
mulberries  where  the  silk  worms  weave  to  enrich  the 
proud  Milanese.  Ah,  those  Milanese!  They  are 
like  the  people  of  Turin,  and  look  down  upon  us 
of  Naples;  they  find  us  only  amusing,  because  our 
minds  and  movements  are  too  quick  for  them  to 
understand.  I  have  no  respect  for  the  Milanese, 
except  for  three  things:  they  have  a  cathedral,  a 
picture,  and  a  dead  man. 

We  came  to  our  hotel  in  the  soft  twilight,  with 
the  air  so  balmy  one  wished  to  rise  and  float 
in  it.  This  was  the  hour  for  the  Cathedral;  there- 
fore, leaving  Leonardo  and  his  fresco  for  the  to-mor- 
row, I  conducted  my  uncomplaining  ward  forth, 
and  through  that  big  arcade  of  which  the  people 
are  so  proud,  to  the  Duomo.  Poor  Jr.  showed  few 
signs  of  life  as  we  stood  before  that  immenseness; 
he  said  patiently  that  it  resembled  the  postals,  and 
followed  me  inside  the  portals  with  languor. 

It  was  all  grey  hollowness  in  the  vast  place.    The 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

windows  showed  not  any  colour  nor  light;  the 
splendid  pillars  soared  up  into  the  air  and  dis- 
appeared as  if  they  mounted  to  heights  of  invisibility 
in  the  sky  at  night.  Very  far  away,  at  the  other  end 
of  the  church  it  seemed,  one  lamp  was  burning, 
high  over  the  transept.  One  could  not  see  the  chains 
of  support  nor  the  roof  above  it;  it  seemed  a  great 
star,  but  so  much  all  alone.  We  walked  down  the 
long  aisle  to  stand  near  to  it,  the  darkness  growing 
deeper  as  we  advanced.  When  we  came  almost 
beneath,  both  of  us  gazing  upward,  my  companion 
unwittingly  stumbled  against  a  lady  who  was  stand- 
ing silently  looking  up  at  this  light,  and  who  had 
failed  to  notice  our  approach.  The  contact  was 
severe  enough  to  dislodge  from  her  hand  her  folded 
parasol,  for  which  I  began  to  grope. 

There  was  a  hurried  sentence  of  excusation  from 
Poor  Jr.,  followed  by  moments  of  silence  before  she 
replied.  Then  I  heard  her  voice  in  startled  exclama- 
tion: 

"Rufus,  it  is  never  you?" 

He  called  out,  almost  loudly, 

"Alice!" 

Then  I  knew  that  it  was  the  second  time  I  had 
lifted  a  parasol  from  the  ground  for  the  lady  of  the 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

grey  pongee  and  did  not  see  her  face;  but  this  time 
I  placed  it  in  her  own  hand;  for  my  head  bore  no 
shame  upon  it  now. 

In  the  surprise  of  encountering  Poor  Jr.  I  do  not 
think  she  noticed  that  she  took  the  parasol  or  was 
conscious  of  my  presence,  and  it  was  but  too  secure 
that  my  young  friend  had  forgotten  that  I  lived. 
I  think,  in  truth,  I  should  have  forgotten  it  myself, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  the  leaping  of  my  heart. 

Ah,  that  foolish  dream  of  mine  had  proven  true: 
I  knew  her,  I  knew  her,  unmistaking,  without  doubt 
or  hesitancy — and  in  the  dark!  How  should  I  know 
at  the  mere  sound  of  her  voice?  I  think  I  knew 
before  she  spoke! 

Poor  Jr.  had  taken  a  step  toward  her  as  she  fell 
back;  I  could  only  see  the  two  figures  as  two  shadows 
upon  shadow,  while  for  them  I  had  melted  altogether 
and  was  forgotten. 

"You  think  I  have  followed  you,"  he  cried,  "but 
you  have  no  right  to  think  it.  It  was  an  accident, 
and  you've  got  to  believe  me !" 

"I  believe  you,"  she  answered  gently.  "Why 
should  I  not?" 

"I  suppose  you  want  me  to  clear  out  again,"  he 
went  on,  "and  I  will;  but  I  don't  see  why." 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  123 

Her  voice  answered  him  out  of  the  shadow:  "It 
is  only  you  who  make  a  reason  why.  I'd  give  any- 
thing to  be  friends  with  you;  you've  always  known 
that." 

"Why  can't  we  be?"  he  said,  sharply  and  loudly. 
"I've  changed  a  great  deal.  I'm  very  sensible,  and 
I'll  never  bother  you  again — that  other  way.  Why 
shouldn't  I  see  a  little  of  you?" 

I  heard  her  laugh  then — happily,  it  seemed  to  me, 
— and  I  thought  I  perceived  her  to  extend  her  hand 
to  him,  and  that  he  shook  it  briefly,  in  his  fashion, 
as  if  it  had  been  the  hand  of  a  man  and  not  that  of 
the  beautiful  lady. 

"You  know  I  should  like  nothing  better  in  the 
world — since  you  tell  me  what  you  do,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"And  the  other  man?"  he  asked  her,  with  the 
same  hinting  of  sharpness  in  his  tone.  "Is  that  all 
settled?" 

"Almost.     Would  you  like  me  to  tell  you?" 

"Only  a  little— please!" 

His  voice  had  dropped,  and  he  spoke  very  quietly, 
which  startlingly  caused  me  to  realize  what  I  was 
doing.  I  went  out  of  hearing  then,  very  softly.  Is 
it  credible  that  I  found  myself  trembling  when  I 


124  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

reached  the  twilit  piazza?  It  is  true,  and  I  knew 
that  never,  for  one  moment,  since  that  tragic,  divine 
day  of  her  pity,  had  I  wholly  despaired  of  beholding 
her  again;  that  in  my  most  sorrowful  time  there  had 
always  been  a  little,  little  morsel  of  certain  knowl- 
edge that  I  should  some  day  be  near  her  once 
more. 

And  now,  so  much  was  easily  revealed  to  me: 
it  was  to  see  her  that  the  good  Lambert  R.  Poor,  Jr., 
had  come  to  Paris,  preceding  my  patron;  it  was  he 
who  had  passed  with  her  on  the  last  day  of  my 
shame,  and  whom  she  had  addressed  by  his  central 
name  of  Rufus,  and  it  was  to  his  hand  that  I  had 
restored  her  parasol. 

I  was  to  look  upon  her  face  at  last — I  knew  it — and 
to  speak  with  her.  Ah,  yes,  I  did  tremble!  It  was 
not  because  I  feared  she  might  recognize  her  poor 
slave  of  the  painted  head-top,  nor  that  Poor  Jr. 
would  tell  her.  I  knew  him  now  too  well  to  think 
he  would  do  that,  had  I  been  even  that  other  of 
whom  he  had  spoken,  for  he  was  a  brave,  good  boy, 
that  Poor  Jr.  No,  it  was  a  trembling  of  another 
kind — something  I  do  not  know  how  to  explain  to 
those  who  have  not  trembled  in  the  same  way;  and 
I  came  alone  to  my  room  in  the  hotel,  still  trembling 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  125 

a  little  and  having  strange  quickness  of  breathing  in 
my  chest. 

I  did  not  make  any  light;  I  did  not  wish  it,  for 
the  precious  darkness  of  the  Cathedral  remained 
with  me — magic  darkness  in  which  I  beheld  floating 
clouds  made  of  the  dust  of  gold  and  vanishing 
melodies.  Any  person  who  knows  of  these  singular 
things  comprehends  how  little  of  them  can  be  told; 
but  to  those  people  who  do  not  know  of  them,  it 
may  appear  all  great  foolishness.  Such  people  are 
either  too  young,  and  they  must  wait,  or  too  old — • 
they  have  forgotten! 

It  was  an  hour  afterward,  and  Poor  Jr.  had 
knocked  twice  at  my  door  when  I  lighted  the  room 
and  opened  it  to  him.  He  came  in,  excitedly  flushed, 
and,  instead  of  taking  a  chair,  began  to  walk  quickly 
up  and  down  the  floor. 

"I'm  afraid  I  forgot  all  about  you,  Ansolini," 
he  said,  <ebut  that  girl  I  ran  into  is  a — a  Miss 
Landry,  whom  I  have  known  a  long — " 

I  put  my  hand  on  his  shoulder  for  a  moment  and 
said: 

((I  think  I  am  not  so  dull,  my  friend!" 

He  made  a  blue  flash  at  me  with  his  eyes,  then 
smiled  and  shook  his  head. 


126  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

"Yes,  you  are  right,"  he  answered,  re-beginning 
his  fast  pace  over  the  carpet.  "It  was  she  that  I 
meant  in  Lucerne — I  don't  see  why  I  should  not  tell 
you.  In  Paris  she  said  she  didn't  want  me  to  see 
her  again  until  I  could  be — friendly — the  old  way — 
instead  of  something  considerably  different,  which 
I'd  grown  to  be.  Well,  I've  just  told  her  not  only 
that  I'd  behave  like  a  friend,  but  that  I'd  changed 
and  felt  like  one.  Pretty  much  of  a  lie  that  was!" 
He  laughed,  without  any  amusement.  "But  it  was 
successful,  and  I  suppose  I  can  keep  it  up.  At 
any  rate  we're  going  over  to  Venice  with  her  and 
her  mother  to-morrow.  Afterwards,  we'll  see  them 
in  Naples  just  before  they  sail." 

"To  Venice  with  them!"  I  could  not  repress 
crying  out. 

"Yes;  we  join  parties  for  two  days,"  he  said,  and 
stopped  at  a  window  and  looked  out  attentively  at 
nothing  before  he  went  on:  "It  won't  be  very  long, 
and  I  don't  suppose  it  will  ever  happen  again.  The 
other  man  is  to  meet  them  in  Rome.  He's  a  country- 
man of  yours,  and  I  believe — I  believe  it's — about 
—settled!" 

He  pronounced  these  last  words  in  an  even  voice, 
but  how  slowly!  Not  more  slowly  than  the  con- 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  127 

struction  of  my  own  response,  which  I  heard  myself 
making: 

"This  countryman  of  mine — who  is  he?" 

"One  of  your  kind  of  Kentucky  Colonels,"  Poor 
Jr.  laughed  mournfully.  At  first  I  did  not  under- 
stand; then  it  came  to  me  that  he  had  sometimes 
previously  spoken  in  that  idiom  of  the  nobles,  and 
that  it  had  been  his  custom  to  address  one  of  his 
Parisian  followers,  a  vicomte,  as  "Colonel." 

"What  is  his  name?" 

"I  can't  pronounce  it,  and  I  don't  know  how  to 
spell  it,"  he  answered.  "And  that  doesn't  bring  me 
to  the  verge  of  the  grave!  I  can  bear  to  forget  it,  at 
least  until  we  get  to  Naples!" 

He  turned  and  went  to  the  door,  saying,  cheerfully: 
"Well,  old  horse-thief"  (such  had  come  to  be  his 
name  for  me  sometimes,  and  it  was  pleasant  to 
hear),  "we  must  be  dressing.  They're  at  this  hotel, 
and  we  dine  with  them  to-night." 


CHAPTER  VI 

HOW  can  I  tell  of  the  lady  of  the  pongee — 
now  that  I  beheld  her?  Do  you  think 
that,  when  she  came  that  night  to  the 
salon  where  we  were  awaiting  her,  I  hesitated  to 
lift  my  eyes  to  her  face  because  of  a  fear  that  it 
would  not  be  so  beautiful  as  the  misty  sweet  face 
I  had  dreamed  would  be  hers?  Ah,  no!  It  was  the 
beauty  which  was  in  her  heart  that  had  made  me 
hers;  yet  I  knew  that  she  was  beautiful.  She  was 
fair,  that  is  all  I  can  tell.  I  cannot  tell  of  her  eyes, 
her  height,  her  mouth;  I  saw  her  through  those 
clouds  of  the  dust  of  gold — she  was  all  glamour  and 
light.  It  was  to  be  seen  that  every  one  fell  in  love 
with  her  at  once;  that  the  chef  d'orchestre  came  and 
played  to  her;  and  the  waiters — you  should  have 
observed  them! — made  silly,  tender  faces  through 
the  great  groves  of  flowers  with  which  Poor  Jr.  had 
covered  the  table.  It  was  most  difficult  for  me  to 
address  her,  to  call  her  "Miss  Landry."  It  seemed 
impossible  that  she  should  have  a  name,  or  that  I 

should  speak  to  her  except  as  "you." 

128 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  129 

Even,  I  cannot  tell  very  much  of  her  mother, 
except  that  she  was  adorable  because  of  her  adorable 
relationship.  She  was  florid,  perhaps,  and  her  con- 
versation was  of  commonplaces  and  echoes,  like  my 
Dwn,  for  I  could  not  talk.  It  was  Poor  Jr.  who  made 
the  talking,  and  in  spite  of  the  spell  that  was  on  me, 
I  found  myself  full  of  admiration  and  sorrow  for 
that  brave  fellow.  He  was  all  gaieties  and  little 
stories  in  a  way  I  had  never  heard  before;  he  kept 
us  in  quiet  laughter;  in  a  word,  he  was  charming. 
The  beautiful  lady  seemed  content  to  listen  with 
the  greatest  pleasure.  She  talked  very  little,  except 
to  encourage  the  young  man  to  continue.  I  do  not 
think  she  was  brilliant,  as  they  call  it,  or  witty. 
She  was  much  more  than  that  in  her  comprehension, 
in  her  kindness — her  beautiful  kindness! 

She  spoke  only  once  directly  to  me,  except  for  the 
Tittle  things  one  must  say.  "I  am  almost  sure  I 
have  met  you,  Signor  Ansolini." 

I  felt  myself  burning  up  and  knew  that  the  con- 
flagration was  visible.  So  frightful  a  blush  cannot 
be  prevented  by  will-power,  and  I  felt  it  continuing 
in  hot  waves  long  after  Poor  Jr.  had  effected  salva- 
tion for  me  by  a  small  joke  upon  my  cosmopo- 
litanism. 


130  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

Little  sleep  visited  me  that  night.  The  darkness 
of  my  room  was  luminous  and  my  closed  eyes  became 
painters,  painting  so  radiatingly  with  divine  colours 
— painters  of  wonderful  portraits  of  this  lady. 
Gallery  after  gallery  swam  before  me,  and  the  morn- 
ing brought  only  more! 

What  a  ride  it  was  to  Venice  that  day!  What 
magical  airs  we  rode  through,  and  what  a  thieving 
old  trickster  was  Time,  as  he  always  becomes  when 
one  wishes  hours  to  be  long!  I  think  Poor  Jr.  had 
made  himself  forget  everything  except  that  he  was 
with  her  and  that  he  must  be  a  friend.  He 
committed  a  thousand  ridiculousnesses  at  the 
stations;  he  filled  one  side  of  the  compartment 
with  the  pretty  chianti-bottles,  with  terrible 
cakes,  and  with  fruits  and  flowers;  he  never 
ceased  his  joking,  which  had  no  tiresomeness  in  it, 
and  he  made  the  little  journey  one  of  continuing, 
happy  laughter. 

And  that  evening  another  of  my  foolish  dreams 
came  true!  I  sat  in  a  gondola  with  the  lady  of  the 
grey  pongee  to  hear  the  singing  on  the  Grand  Canal; 
— not,  it  is  true,  at  her  feet,  but  upon  a  little  chair 
beside  her  mother.  It  was  my  place — to  be,  as  I 
had  been  all  day,  escort  to  the  mother,  and  guide 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  131 

and  courier  for  that  small  party.  Contented  enough 
was  I  to  accept  it !  How  could  I  have  hoped  that  the 
Most  Blessed  Mother  would  grant  me  so  much 
nearness  as  that?  It  was  not  happiness  that  I  felt, 
but  something  so  much  more  precious,  as  though 
my  heart-strings  were  the  strings  of  a  harp,  and 
sad,  beautiful  arpeggios  ran  over  them. 

I  could  not  speak  much  that  evening  nor  could 
Poor  Jr.  We  were  very  silent  and  listened  to  the 
singing,  our  gondola  just  touching  the  others  on 
each  side,  those  in  turn  touching  others,  so  that  a 
musician  from  the  barge  could  cross  from  one  to 
another,  presenting  the  hat  for  contributions.  In 
spite  of  this  extreme  propinquity,  I  feared  the  col- 
lector would  fall  into  the  water  when  he  received  the 
offering  of  Poor  Jr.  It  was  "Gra-a-az\  Mi-lorl 
Graz9!"  a  hundred  times,  with  bows  and  grateful 
smiles  indeed! 

It  is  the  one  place  in  the  world  where  you  listen 
to  a  bad  voice  with  pleasure,  and  none  of  the  voices 
are  good — they  are  harsh  and  worn  with  the  night- 
singing — yet  all  are  beautiful  because  they  are 
enchanted. 

They  sang  some  of  our  own  Neapolitan  songs 
that  night,  and  last  of  all  the  loveliest  of  all,  "La 


132  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

Luna  Nuova."  It  was  to  the  cadence  of  it  that  our 
gondoliers  moved  us  out  of  the  throng,  and  it  still 
drifted  on  the  water  as  we  swung,  far  down,  into 
sight  of  the  lights  of  the  Lido: 

66 Luna  d'ar-gen-to  fal-lo  so-gnar — 
Ba-cia-lo  in  fron-te  non  lo  de-star.     .     .     ." 

Not  so  sweetly  came  those  measures  as  the  low 
voice  of  the  beautiful  lady  speaking  then. 

"One  could  never  forget  it,  never!"  she  said. 
"I  might  hear  it  a  thousand  other  times  and  forget 
them,  but  never  this  first  time." 

I  perceived  that  Poor  Jr.  turned  his  face  abruptly 
toward  hers  at  this,  but  he  said  nothing,  by  which 
I  understood  not  only  his  wisdom  but  his  for- 
bearance. 

"Strangely  enough,"  she  went  on,  slowly,  "that 
song  reminded  me  of  something  in  Paris.  Do  you 
remember" — she  turned  to  Poor  Jr. — "that  poor 
man  we  saw  in  front  of  the  Cafe  de  la  Paix  with  the 
sign  painted  upon  his  head?" 

Ah,  the  good  night,  with  its  friendly  cloak! 
The  good,  kind  night! 

"I  remember,"  he  answered,  with  some  shortness. 
"A  little  faster,  boatman!" 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  133 

"I  don't  know  what  made  it,"  she  said,  "I  can't 
account  for  it,  but  I've  been  thinking  of  him  all 
through  that  last  song." 

Perhaps  not  so  strange,  since  one  may  know  how 
wildly  that  poor  devil  had  been  thinking  of  her! 

"I've  thought  of  him  so  often,"  the  gentle  voice 
went  on.  "I  felt  so  sorry  for  him.  I  never  felt  sorrier 
for  any  one  in  my  life.  I  was  sorry  for  the  poor,  thin 
cab-horses  in  Paris,  but  I  was  sorrier  for  him.  I 
think  it  was  the  saddest  sight  I  ever  saw.  Do  you 
suppose  he  still  has  to  do  that,  Rufus?" 

"No,  no,"  he  answered,  in  haste.  "He'd  stopped 
before  I  left.  He's  all  right,  I  imagine.  Here's  the 
Daiiieli." 

She  fastened  a  shawl  more  closely  about  her 
mother,  whom  I,  with  a  ringing  in  my  ears,  was 
trying  to  help  up  the  stone  steps.  "Rufus,  I  hope," 
the  sweet  voice  continued,  so  gently — "I  hope 
he's  found  something  to  do  that's  very  grand! 
Don't  you?  Something  to  make  up  to  him  for 
doing  that!" 

She  had  not  the  faintest  dream  that  it  was  I. 
It  was  just  her  beautiful  heart. 

The  next  afternoon  Venice  was  a  bleak  and 
empty  setting,  the  jewel  gone.  How  vacant  it 


134  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

looked,  how  vacant  it  was!  We  made  not  any 
effort  to  penetrate  the  galleries;  I  had  no  heart 
to  urge  my  friend.  For  us  the  whole  of  Venice 
had  become  one  bridge  of  sighs,  and  we  sat  in  the 
shade  of  the  piazza,  not  watching  the  pigeons,  and 
listening  very  little  to  the  music.  There  are  times 
when  St.  Mark's  seems  to  glare  at  you  with  By- 
zantine cruelty,  and  Venice  is  too  hot  and  too 
cold.  So  it  was  then.  Evening  found  us  staring 
out  at  the  Adriatic  from  the  terrace  of  a  cafe  on 
the  Ledo,  our  coffee  cold  before  us.  Never  was 
a  greater  difference  than  that  in  my  companion 
from  the  previous  day.  Yet  he  was  not  silent. 
He  talked  of  her  continually,  having  found  that 
he  could  talk  of  her  to  me — though  certainly  he 
did  not  know  why  it  was  or  how.  He  told  me, 
as  we  sat  by  the  grey-growing  sea,  that  she  had 
spoken  of  me. 

"She  liked  you,  she  liked  you  very  much,"  he 
said.  "She  told  me  she  liked  you  because  you 
were  quiet  and  melancholy.  Oh  Lord,  though, 
she  likes  every  one,  I  suppose!  I  believe  I'd  have 
a  better  chance  with  her  if  I  hadn't  always  known 
her.  I'm  afraid  that  this  damned  Italian — I  beg 
your  pardon,  Ansolini! — " 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  135 

"Ah,  no,"  I  answered.  "It  is  sometimes  well 
said." 

"I'm  afraid  his  picturesqueness  as  a  Kentucky 
Colonel  appeals  to  her  too  much.  And  then  he 
is  new  to  her — a  new  type.  She  only  met  him 
in  Paris,  and  he  had  done  some  things  in  the 
Abyssinian  war — " 

"What  is  his  rank?"  I  asked. 

"He's  a  prince.  Cheap  down  this  way,  aren't 
they?  I  only  hope" — and  Poor  Jr.  made  a  groan— 
"it  isn't  going  to  be  the  old  story — and  that  he'll  be 
good  to  her  if  he  gets  her." 

"Then  it  is  not  yet  a  betrothal?" 

"Not  yet.  Mrs.  Landry  told  me  that  Alice  had 
liked  him  well  enough  to  promise  she'd  give  him 
her  answer  before  she  sailed,  and  that  it  was  going 
to  be  yes.  She  herself  said  it  was  almost  settled. 
That  was  just  her  way  of  breaking  it  to  me,  I 
fear." 

"You  have  given  up,  my  friend?" 

"What  else  can  I  do?  I  can't  go  on  following  her, 
keeping  up  this  play  at  second  cousin,  and  she 
won't  have  anything  else.  Ever  since  I  grew  up 
she's  been  rather  sorrowful  over  me  because  I  didn't 
do  anything  but  try  to  amuse  myself — that  was  one 


136  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

of  the  reasons  she  couldn't  care  for  me,  she  said, 
when  I  asked  her.  Now  this  fellow  wins,  who  hasn't 
done  anything  either,  except  his  one  campaign. 
It's  not  that  I  ought  to  have  her,  but  while  I  suppose 
it's  a  real  fascination,  I'm  afraid  there's  a  little 
glitter  about  being  a  princess.  Even  the  best  of 
our  girls  haven't  got  over  that  yet.  Ah,  well,  about 
me  she's  right.  I've  been  a  pretty  worthless  sort. 
She's  right.  I've  thought  it  all  over.  Three  days 
before  they  sail  we'll  go  down  to  Naples  and  hear 
the  last  word,  and  whatever  it  is  we'll  see  them  off 
on  the  'Princess  Irene.'  Then  you  and  I'll  come 
north  and  sail  by  the  first  boat  front  Cher- 
bourg." 

"I— I?"    I  stammered. 

<cYes,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  make  tke  aged 
parent  shout  with  unmanly  glee.  I'm  going  to 
ask  him  to  take  me  on  as  a  hand.  He'll  take 
you,  too.  He  uses  something  like  a  thousand 
Italians,  and  a  man  to  manage  them  who  can 
talk  to  them  Eke  a  Dutch  uncle  is  what  he  has 
always  needed.  He  liked  you,  and  he'll  be  glad 
to  get  you." 

He  was  a  good  friend,  that  Poor  Jr.,  you  see,  and 
I  shook  the  hand  that  he  offered  me  very  hard, 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  137 

knowing  how  great  would  have  been  his  embarrass- 
ment had  I  embraced  him  in  our  own  fashion. 

"And  perhaps  you  will  sail  on  the  Trincess  Irene,' 
after  all,"  I  cried. 

"No,"  he  shook  his  head  sadly,  "it  will  not  happen. 
I  have  not  been  worth  it." 


CHAPTER  VII 

THAT  Naples  of  mine  is  like  a  soiled  coronet 
of  white  gems,  sparkling  only  from  far 
away.  But  I  love  it  altogether,  near  or 
far,  and  my  heart  would  have  leaped  to  return  to 
it  for  its  own  sake,  but  to  come  to  it  as  we  did,  know- 
ing that  the  only  lady  in  the  world  was  there.  .  .  . 
Again,  this  is  one  of  those  things  I  possess  no  knowl- 
edge how  to  tell,  and  that  those  who  know  do  know. 
How  I  had  longed  for  the  time  to  come,  how  I  had 
feared  it,  how  I  had  made  pictures  of  it! 

Yet  I  feared  not  so  much  as  my  friend,  for  he 
had  a  dim,  small  hope,  and  I  had  none.  How  could 
I  have?  I — a  man  whose  head  had  been  painted? 
I — for  whom  her  great  heart  had  sorrowed  as  for 
the  thin,  beaten  cab-horses  of  Paris!  Hope?  All 
I  could  hope  was  that  she  might  never  know,  and 
I  be  left  with  some  little  shred  of  dignity  in  her  eyes ! 

Who  cannot  see  that  it  was  for  my  friend  to  fear? 
At  times,  with  him,  it  was  despair,  but  of  that 
brave  kind  one  loves  to  see — never  a  quiver  of  the 

138 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  139 

lip,  no  winking  of  the  eyes  to  keep  tears  back.  And 
I,  although  of  a  people  who  express  everything  in 
every  way,  I  understood  what  passed  within  him 
and  found  time  to  sorrow  for  him. 

Most  of  all,  I  sorrowed  for  him  as  we  waited 
for  her  on  the  terrace  of  the  Bertolini,  that  perch 
on  the  cliff  so  high  that  even  the  noises  of  the  town 
are  dulled  and  mingle  with  the  sound  of  the  thick 
surf  far  below. 

Across  the  city,  and  beyond,  we  saw,  from  the 
terrace,  the  old  mountain  of  the  warm  heart,  smok- 
ing amiably,  and  the  lights  of  Torre  del  Greco  at 
its  feet,  and  there,  across  the  bay,  I  beheld,  as  I 
had  nightly  so  long  ago,  the  lamps  of  Castellamare, 
of  Sorrento;  then,  after  a  stretch  of  water,  a 
twinkling  which  was  Capri.  How  good  it  was 
to  know  that  all  these  had  not  taken  advantage 
of  my  long  absence  to  run  away  and  vanish,  as 
I  had  half  feared  they  would.  Those  who  have 
lived  here  love  them  well;  and  it  was  a  happy 
:  thought  that  the  beautiful  lady  knew  them  now, 
and  shared  them.  I  had  never  known  quite  all 
their  loveliness  until  I  felt  that  she  knew  it  too. 
This  was  something  that  I  must  never  tell  her — 
yet  what  happiness  there  was  in  it! 


140  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

I  stood  close  to  the  railing,  with  a  rambling 
gaze  over  this  enchanted  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 
while  my  friend  walked  nervously  up  and  down 
behind  me.  We  had  come  to  Naples  in  the  late 
afternoon,  and  had  found  a  note  from  Mrs.  Landry 
at  our  hotel,  asking  us  for  dinner.  Poor  Jr.  had 
not  spoken  more  than  twice  since  he  had  read 
me  this  kind  invitation,  but  now  I  heard  a  low 
exclamation  from  him,  which  let  me  know  who 
was  approaching;  and  that  foolish  trembling  got 
hold  of  me  again  as  I  turned. 

Mrs.  Landry  came  first,  with  outstretched  hand, 
making  some  talk  excusing  delay;  and,  after  a  few 
paces,  followed  the  loveliest  of  all  the  world.  Be- 
side her,  in  silhouette  against  the  white  window 
lights  of  the  hotel,  I  saw  the  very  long,  thin  figure 
of  a  man,  which,  even  before  I  recognized  it,  car- 
ried a  certain  ominousness  to  my  mind. 

Mrs.  Landry,  in  spite  of  her  florid  contentedness, 
had  sometimes  a  fluttering  appearance  of  trivial 
agitations. 

"The  Prince  came  down  from  Rome  this  morn- 
ing, "  she  said  nervously,  and  I  saw  my  friend 
throw  back  his  head  like  a  man  who  declines  the 
eye-bandage  when  they  are  going  to  shoot  him. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  141 

"He  is  dining  with  us.  I  know  you  will  be  glad 
to  meet  him." 

The  beautiful  lady  took  Poor  Jr.'s  hand,  more 
than  he  hers,  for  he  seemed  dazed,  in  spite  of  the 
straight  way  he  stood,  and  it  was  easy  to  behold 
how  white  his  face  was.  She  made  the  presenta- 
tion of  us  both  at  the  same  time,  and  as  the  other 
man  came  into  the  light,  my  mouth  dropped  open 
with  wonder  at  the  singular  chances  which  the 
littleness  of  our  world  brings  about. 

"Prince  Caravacioli,  Mr.  Poor.  And  this  is 
Signor  Ansolini." 

It  was  my  half-brother,  that  old  Antonio! 


CHAPTER  VIII 

NEVER  lived  any  person  with  more  pos- 
session of  himself  than  Antonio;  he  bowed 
to  each  of  us  with  the  utmost  amiability  5 
and  for  expression — all  one  saw  of  it  was  a  little 
streak  of  light  in  his  eye-glass. 

"It  is  yourself,  Raffaele?"  he  said  to  me,  in 
the  politest  manner,  in  our  own  tongue,  the  others 
thinking  it  some  commonplace,  and  I  knew  by 
his  voice  that  the  meeting  was  as  surprising  and 
as  exasperating  to  him  as  to  me. 

Sometimes  dazzling  flashes  of  light  explode  across 
the  eyes  of  blind  people.  Such  a  thing  happened 
to  my  own,  now,  in  the  darkness.  I  found  myself 
hot  all  over  with  a  certain  rashness  that  came  to 
me.  I  felt  that  anything  was  possible  if  I  would 
but  dare  enough. 

"I  am  able  to  see  that  it  is  the  same  yourself" 
I  answered,  and  made  the  faintest  eye-turn  toward 
Miss  Landry.  Simultaneously  bowing,  I  let  my 
hand  fall  upon  my  pocket — a  language  which  he 

142 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  143 

understood,  and  for  which  (the  Blessed  Mother 
be  thanked!)  he  perceived  that  I  meant  to  offer 
battle  immediately,  though  at  that  moment  he 
offered  me  an  open  smile  of  benevolence.  He  knew 
nothing  of  my  new  cause  for  war;  there  was  enough 
of  the  old! 

The  others  were  observing  us. 

"You  have  met?"  asked  the  gentle  voice  of 
Miss  Landry.  "You  know  each  other?" 

"Exceedingly!"  I  answered,  bowing  low  to  her. 

"The  dinner  is  waiting  in  our  own  salon,"  said 
Mrs.  Landry,  interrupting.  She  led  the  way  with 
Antonio  to  an  open  door  on  the  terrace  where 
servants  were  attending,  and  such  a  forest  of  flowers 
on  the  table  and  about  the  room  as  almost  to  cause 
her  escort  to  stagger;  for  I  knew,  when  I  caught 
sight  of  them,  that  he  had  never  been  wise  enough 
to  send  them.  Neither  had  Poor  Jr.  done  it  out 
of  wisdom,  but  because  of  his  large  way  of  per- 
forming everything,  and  his  wish  that  loveliest 
things  should  be  a  background  for  that  lady. 

Alas  for  him!  Those  great  jars  of  perfume, 
orchids  and  hyacinths  and  roses,  almost  shut  her 
away  from  his  vision.  We  were  at  a  small  round 
table,  and  she  directly  in  opposition  to  him.  Upon 


144  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

her  right  was  Antonio,  and  my  heart  grew  cold 
to  see  how  she  listened  to  him. 

For  Antonio  could  talk.  At  that  time  he  spoke 
English  even  better  than  I,  though  without  some 
knowledge  of  the  North-American  idiom  which 
my  travels  with  Poor  Jr.  had  given  me.  He  was 
one  of  those  splendid  egoists  who  seem  to  talk 
in  modesty,  to  keep  themselves  behind  scenes, 
yet  who,  when  the  curtain  falls,  are  discovered  to 
be  the  heroes,  after  all,  though  shown  in  so  deli- 
cate a  fashion  that  the  audience  flatters  itself  in 
the  discovery. 

And  how  practical  was  this  fellow,  how  many 
years  he  had  been  developing  his  fascinations! 
I  was  the  only  person  of  that  small  company  who 
could  have  a  suspicion  that  his  moustache  was 
dyed,  that  his  hair  was  toupee,  or  that  hints  of 
his  real  age  were  scorpions  and  adders  to  him. 
I  should  not  have  thought  it,  if  I  had  not  known 
it.  Here  was  my  advantage;  I  had  known  his 
monstrous  vanity  all  my  life. 

So  he  talked  of  himself  in  his  various  surreptitious 
ways  until  coffee  came,  Miss  Landry  listening 
eagerly,  and  my  poor  friend  making  no  effort; 
for  what  were  his  quiet  United  States  absurdities 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  145 

compared  to  the  whole-world  gaieties  and  Abys- 
sinian adventures  of  this  Othello,  particularly  for 
a  young  girl  to  whom  Antonio's  type  was  un- 
familiar? For  the  first  time  I  saw  my  young  man's 
brave  front  desert  him.  His  mouth  drooped,  and 
his  eyes  had  an  appearance  of  having  gazed  long 
at  a  bright  light.  I  saw  that  he,  unhappy  one. 
was  at  last  too  sure  what  her  answer  would  be. 

For  myself,  I  said  very  little — I  waited.  I  hoped 
and  believed  Antonio  would  attack  me  in  his  clever, 
disguised  way,  for  he  had  always  hated  me  and 
my  dead  brother,  and  he  had  never  failed  to  prove 
himself  too  skilled  for  us.  In  my  expectancy  of 
his  assault  there  was  no  mistake.  I  comprehended 
Antonio  very  well,  and  I  knew  that  he  feared  I 
might  seek  to  do  him  an  injury,  particularly 
after  my  inspired  speech  and  gesture  upon  the 
terrace.  Also,  I  felt  that  he  would,  if  possible, 
anticipate  my  attempt  and  strike  first.  I  was 
willing;  for  I  thought  myself  in  possession  of  his 
vulnerable  point — never  dreaming  that  he  might 
know  my  own! 

At  last  wjien  he,  with  the  coffee  and  cigarettes, 
took  the  knife  in  his  hand,  he  placed  a  veil  over 
the  point.  He  began,  laughingly,  with  the  picture 


146  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

of  a  pickpocket  he  had  helped  to  catch  in  London. 
London  was  greatly  inhabited  by  pickpockets, 
according  to  Antonio's  declaration.  Yet,  he  con- 
tinued, it  was  nothing  in  comparison  to  Paris, 
Paris  was  the  rendezvous,  the  world's  home,  for 
the  criminals,  adventurers,  and  rascals  of  the 
world,  English,  Spanish,  South-Americans,  North- 
Americans — and  even  Italians!  One  must  beware 
of  people  one  has  met  in  Paris! 

"Of  course,"  he  concluded,  with  a  most  amiable 
smile,  "there  are  many  good  people  there  also. 
That  is  not  to  be  forgotten.  If  I  should  dare  to 
make  a  risk  on  such  a  trifle,  for  instance,  I  would 
lay  a  wager  that  you" — he  nodded  toward  Poor 
Jr. — "made  the  acquaintance  of  Ansolini  in  Paris?" 

This  was  of  the  greatest  ugliness  in  its  under- 
neath significance,  though  the  manner  was  dis- 
arming. Antonio's  smile  was  so  cheerful,  his  eye- 
glass so  twinkling,  that  none  of  them  could  have 
been  sure  he  truly  meant  anything  harmful  of 
me,  though  Poor  Jr.  looked  up,  puzzled  and 
frowning. 

Before  he  could  answer  I  pulled  myself  together, 
as  they  say,  and  leaned  forward,  resting  my  elbows 
upon  the  table.  "It  is  true,"  and  I  tried  to  smile 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  147 

as  amiably  as  Antonio.  "These  coincidences  occur. 
You  meet  all  the  great  frauds  of  the  world  in  Paris. 
Was  it  not  there" — I  turned  to  Mrs.  Landry — 
"that  you  met  the  young  Prince  here?" 

At  this  there  was  no  mistaking  that  the  others 
perceived.  The  secret  battle  had  begun  and  was 
not  secret.  I  saw  a  wild  gleam  in  Poor  Jr.'s  eyes, 
as  if  he  comprehended  that  strange  things  were 
to  come;  but,  ah,  the  face  of  distress  and  wonder 
upon  Mrs.  Landry,  who  beheld  the  peace  of  both  a 
Prince  and  a  dinner  assailed;  and,  alas!  the  strange 
and  hurt  surprise  that  came  from  the  lady  of  the 
pongee!  Let  me  not  be  a  boastful  fellow,  but  I 
had  borne  her  pity  and  had  adored  it — I  could 
face  her  wonder,  even  her  scorn. 

It  was  in  the  flash  of  her  look  that  I  saw  my  great 
chance  and  what  I  must  try  to  do.  Knowiug 
Antonio,  it  was  as  if  I  saw  her  falling  into  the  deep 
water  and  caught  just  one  contemptuous  glance 
from  her  before  the  waves  hid  her.  But  how  much 
juster  should  that  contempt  have  been  if  I  had 
not  tried  to  save  her! 

As  for  that  old  Antonio,  he  might  have  known 
enough  to  beware.  I  had  been  timid  with  him 
always,  and  he  counted  on  it  now,  but  a  man  who 


148  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

has  shown  a  painted  head-top  to  the  people  of 
Paris  will  dare  a  great  deal. 

"As  the  Prince  says,"  replied  Mrs.  Landry, 
with  many  flutters,  "one  meets  only  the  most 
agreeable  people  in  Paris!" 

"Paris!"  I  exclaimed.  "Ah,  that  home  of  in- 
genuity! How  they  paint  there!  How  they  live, 
and  how  they  dye — then'  beards!" 

You  see  how  the  poor  Ansolini  played  the  buffoon. 
I  knew  they  feared  it  was  wine,  I  had  been  so  silent 
until  now;  but  I  did  not  care,  I  was  beyond  care. 

"Our  young  Prince  speaks  truly,"  I  cried,  raising 
my  voice.  "He  is  wise  beyond  his  years,  thi? 
youth!  He  will  be  great  when  he  reaches  middle 
age,  for  he  knows  Paris  and  understands  North 
America!  Like  myself,  he  is  grateful  that  the 
people  of  your  continent  enrich  our  own!  We 
need  all  that  you  can  give  us!  Where  should  we 
be — any  of  us"  (I  raised  my  voice  still  louder  and 
waved  my  hand  to  Antonio) — "where  should  we 
be,  either  of  us"  (and  I  bowed  to  the  others)  "with- 
out you?" 

Mrs.  Landry  rose  with  precipitousness,  and  the 
beautiful  lady,  very  red,  followed.  Antonio,  un- 
mistakably stung  with  the  scorpions  I  had  set 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  149 

ypon  him,  sprang  to  the  door,  the  palest  yellow 
tnan  I  have  ever  beheld,  and  let  the  ladies  pass 
before  him. 

The  next  moment  I  was  left  alone  with  Poor 
Jr.  and  his  hyacinth  trees. 


CHAPTER  IX 

FOR  several  minutes  neither  of  us  spoke. 
Then  I  looked  up  to  meet  my  friend's 
gaze  of  perturbation. 

A  waiter  was  proffering  cigars.  I  took  one,  and 
waved  Poor  Jr.'s  hand  away  from  the  box  of  which 
the  waiter  made  offering. 

"Do  not  remain!"  I  whispered,  and  I  saw  his 
sad  perplexity.  "I  know  her  answer  has  not  been 
given.  Will  you  present  him  his  chance  to  re- 
ceive it — just  when  her  sympathy  must  be  stronger 
for  him,  since  she  will  think  he  has  had  to  bear 
rudeness?" 

He  went  out  of  the  door  quickly. 

I  did  not  smoke.  I  pretended  to,  while  the 
waiters  made  the  arrangements  of  the  table  and 
took  themselves  off.  I  sat  there  a  long,  long  time 
waiting  for  Antonio  to  do  what  I  hoped  I  had 
betrayed  him  to  do. 

It  befell  at  last. 

150 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  151 

Poor  Jr.  came  to  the  door  and  spoke  in  his  steady 
voice.  "Ansolini,  will  you  come  out  here  a  mo- 
ment?" 

Then  I  knew  that  I  had  succeeded,  had  made 
Antonio  afraid  that  I  would  do  the  thing  he  him- 
self, in  a  panic,  had  already  done — speak  evil  of 
another  privately. 

As  I  reached  the  door  I  heard  him  call  out  fool- 
ishly, "But,  Mr.  Poor,  I  beg  you—" 

Poor  Jr.  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  we 
walked  out  into  the  dark  of  the  terrace.  Antonio 
was  leaning  against  the  railing,  the  beautiful  stand- 
ing near.  Mrs.  Landry  had  sunk  into  a  chair 
beside  her  daughter.  No  other  people  were  upon 
the  terrace. 

"Prince  Caravacioli  has  been  speaking  of  you," 
said  Poor  Jr.,  very  quietly. 

"Ah?"  said  I. 

"I  listened  to  what  he  said;  then  I  told  him 
that  you  were  my  friend,  and  that  I  considered  it 
fair  that  you  should  hear  what  he  had  to  say.  I 
will  repeat  what  he  said,  Ansolini.  If  I  mistake 
anything,  he  can  interrupt  me." 

Antonio  laughed,  and  in  such  a  way,  so  sincerely, 
so. gaily,  that  I  was  frightened. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

"Very  good!"  he  cried.  "I  am  content.  Re- 
peat all." 

"He  began,"  Poor  Jr.  went  on,  quietly,  though 
his  hand  gripped  my  shoulder  to  almost  painful  - 
ness — "he  began  by  saying  to  these  ladies,  in  my 
presence,  that  we  should  be  careful  not  to  pick 
up  chance  strangers  to  dine,  in  Italy,  and — and 
he  went  on  to  give  me  a  repetition  of  his  friendly 
warning  about  Paris.  He  hinted  things  for  a  while, 
until  I  asked  him  to  say  what  he  knew  of  you. 
Then  he  said  he  knew  all  about  you;  that  you 
were  an  outcast,  a  left-handed  member  of  his  own 
family,  an  adventurer— 

"It  is  finished,  my  friend,"  I  said,  interrupting 
him,  and  gazed  with  all  my  soul  upon  the  beau- 
tiful lady.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  Antonio's 
or  that  of  my  friend,  or  as  my  own  must  have 
been.  She  strained  her  eyes  at  me  fixedly;  I  saw 
the  stars  standing  still  in  them,  and  I  knew  the 
moment  had  come. 

"This  Caravaciolo  is  my  half-brother,"  I  said. 

Antonio  laughed  again.    "Of  what  kind!" 

Oh,  he  went  on  so  easily  to  his  betrayal,  not 
knowing  the  United-Statesians  and  their  sentiment, 
as  I  did. 


t 

THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  153 

"We  had  the  same  mother,"  I  continued,  as 
quietly  as  I  could.  "Twenty  years  after  this  young 
• — this  somewhat  young — Prince  was  born  she 
divorced  his  father,  Caravacioli,  and  married  a 
poor  poet,  whose  bust  you  can  see  on  the  Pincian 
in  Rome,  though  he  died  in  the  cheapest  hotel  in  Si- 
enna when  my  true  brother  and  I  were  children. 
This  young  Prince  would  have  nothing  to  do  with 
my  mother  after  her  second  marriage  and— 

"Marriage!''  Antonio  laughed  pleasantly  again. 
He  was  admirable.  "This  is  an  old  tale  which 
the  hastiness  of  our  American  friend  has  forced 
us  to  rehearse.  The  marriage  was  never  recog- 
nized by  the  Vatican,  and  there  was  not  twenty 
years — " 

"Antonio,  it  is  the  age  which  troubles  you,  after 
all!"  I  said,  and  laughed  heartily,  loudly,  and  a 
long  time,  in  the  most  good-natured  way,  not  to 
be  undone  as  an  actor. 

"Twenty  years,"  I  repeated.  "But  what  of  it? 
Some  of  the  best  men  in  the  world  use  dyes  and 
false—" 

At  this  his  temper  went  away  from  him  suddenly 
and  completely,  I  had  struck  the  right  point 
indeed! 


154  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

"You  cammorista !"  he  cried,  and  became  only 
himself,  his  hands  gesturing  and  flying,  all  his 
pleasant  manner  gone.  "Why  should  we  listen 
one  second  more  to  such  a  fisherman!  The  very 
seiners  of  the  bay  who  sell  dried  sea-horses  to  the 
tourists  are  better  gentlemen  than  you.  You  can 
shrug  your  shoulders!  I  saw  you  in  Paris,  though 
you  thought  I  did  not!  Oh,  I  saw  you  well!  Ah! 
At  the  Cafe  de  la  Pah:!99 

At  this  I  cried  out  suddenly.  The  sting  and 
surprise  of  it  were  more  than  I  could  bear.  In 
my  shame  I  would  even  have  tried  to  drown  his 
voice  with  babblings,  but  after  this  one  cry  I  could 
not  speak  for  a  while.  He  went  on  triumphantly: 

"This  rascal,  my  dear  ladies,  who  has  persuaded 
you  to  ask  him  to  dinner,  this  camel  who  claims 
to  be  my  excellent  brother,  he,  for  a  few  francs, 
in  Paris,  shaved  his  head  and  showed  it  for  a  week 
to  the  people  with  an  advertisement  painted  upon 
it  of  the  worst  ballet  in  Paris.  This  is  the  gentle- 
man with  whom  you  ask  Caravacioli  to  dine!" 

It  was  beyond  my  expectation,  so  astonishing 
and  so  cruel  that  I  could  only  look  at  him  for  a 
moment  or  two.  I  felt  as  one  who  dreams  himself 
falling  forever.  Then  I  stepped  forward  and  spoke. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  155 

in  thickness  of  voice,  being  unable  to  lift  my 
head: 

"Again  it  is  true  what  he  says.  I  was  that  man 
of  the  painted  head.  I  had  my  true  brother's 
little  daughters  to  care  for.  They  were  at  the 
convent,  and  I  owed  for  them.  It  also  was  partly 
for  myself,  because  I  was  hungry.  I  could  find 
not  any  other  way,  and  so — but  that  is  all." 

I  turned  and  went  stumbling  away  from  them. 

In  my  agony  that  she  should  know,  I  could 
do  nothing  but  seek  greater  darkness.  I  felt  my- 
self beaten,  dizzy  with  beatings.  That  thing  which 
I  had  done  in  Paris  discredited  me.  A  man  whose 
head-top  had  borne  an  advertisement  of  the  Folie- 
Rouge  to  think  he  could  be  making  a  combat  with 
the  Prince  Caravacioli! 

Leaning  over  the  railing  in  the  darkest  corner 
of  the  terrace,  I  felt  my  hand  grasped  secondarily 
by  that  good  friend  of  mine. 

"God  bless  you!"  whispered  Poor  Jr.  "On  my 
soul,  I  believe  he's  done  himself.  Listen!" 

I  turned.  That  beautiful  lady  had  stepped  out 
into  the  light  from  the  salon  door.  I  could  see  her 
face  shining,  and  her  eyes — ah  me,  how  glorious 
they  were!  Antonio  followed  her. 


156  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

"But  wait,"  he  cried,  pitifully. 

"Not  for  you!"  she  answered,  and  that  voice  of 
hers,  always  before  so  gentle,  rang  out  as  the  Roman 
trumpets  once  rang  from  this  same  cliff.  "Not  for 
you!  /  saw  him  there  with  his  painted  head  and  I 
understood !  You  saw  him  there,  and  you  did  nothing 
to  help  him!  And  the  two  little  children — your 
nieces,  too, — and  he  your  brother!" 

Then  my  heart  melted  and  I  found  myself  choking, 
for  the  beautiful  lady  was  weeping. 

"Not  for  you9  Prince  Caravacioli,"  she  cried, 
through  her  tears, — "Not  for  you!" 


CHAPTER  X 

ALL  of  the  beggars  in  Naples,  I  think,  all  of 
the  flower-girls  and  boys,  I  am  sure,  and 
all  the  wandering  serenaders,  I  will  swear, 
were  under  our  windows  at  the  Vesuve,  from  six 
o'clock  on  the  morning  the  "Princess  Irene"  sailed; 
and  there  need  be  no  wonder  when  it  is  known  that 
Poor  Jr.  had  thrown  handfuls  of  silver  and  five-lire 
notes  from  our  balcony  to  strolling  orchestras  and 
singers  for  two  nights  before. 

They  wakened  us  with  "Addio,  la  bella  Napoli, 
addio,  addio!"  sung  to  the  departing  benefactor. 
When  he  had  completed  his  toilet  and  his  coffee, 
he  showed  himself  on  the  balcony  to  them  for  a 
moment.  Ah!  What  a  resounding  cheer  for  the 
signore,  the  great  North-American  nobleman!  And 
how  it  swelled  to  a  magnificent  thundering  when 
another  largess  of  his  came  flying  down  among  them ! 

Who  could  have  reproved  him?  Not  Raffaele 
Ansolini,  who  was  on  his  knees  over  the  bags  and 

rugs!     I  think  I  even  made  some  prolongation  of 

157 


158  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

that  position,  for  I  was  far  from  assured  of  my 
countenance,  that  bright  morning. 

I  was  not  to  sail  in  the  "Princess  Irene"  with 
those  dear  friends.  Ah  no!  I  had  told  them  that  I 
must  go  back  to  Paris  to  say  good-bye  to  my  little 
nieces  and  sail  from  Boulogne — and  I  am  sure  they 
believed  that  was  my  reason.  I  had  even  arranged 
to  go  away  upon  a  train  which  would  make  it  not 
possible  for  me  to  drive  to  the  dock  with  them.  I 
did  not  wish  to  see  the  boat  carry  them  away  from 
me. 

And  so  the  farewells  were  said  in  the  street  in  all 
that  crowd.  Poor  Jr.  and  I  were  waiting  at  the  door 
when  the  carriage  galloped  up.  How  the  crowd 
rushed  to  see  that  lady  whom  it  bore  to  us  blushing 
and  laughing!  Clouds  of  gold-dust  came  before  my 
eyes  again;  she  wore  once  more  that  ineffable  grey 
pongee! 

Servants  ran  forward  with  the  effects  of  Poor  Jr., 
and  we  both  sprang  toward  the  carriage. 

A  flower-girl  was  offering  a  great  basket  of  loose 
violets.  Poor  Jr.  seized  it  and  threw  them  like  a 
blue  rain  over  the  two  ladies. 

"Bravo!  Bravo!" 

A  hundred  bouquets  showered  into  the  carriage, 


THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY  159 

and  my  friend's  silver  went  out  in  another  shower 
to  meet  them. 

"Addio,  la  bella  Napoli!"  came  from  the  singers 
and  the  violins,  but  I  cried  to  them  for  "La  Luna 
Nova." 

"Good-bye — for  a  little  while — good-bye!" 

I  knew  how  well  my  friend  liked  me,  because  he 
shook  my  hand  with  his  head  turned  away.  Then 
the  grey  glove  of  the  beautiful  lady  touched  my 
shoulder — the  lightest  touch  in  all  the  world — as 
I  stood  close  to  the  carriage  while  Poor  Jr.  climbed 
in. 

"God-bye.  Thank  you— and  God  bless  you!" 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice.  And  I  knew  for  what  she 
thanked  me. 

The  driver  cracked  his  whip  like  an  honest  Neapo- 
litan. The  horses  sprang  forward.  "Addio,  addio!" 

"Luna  d'argento  fallo  sognar— 
Bacialo  in  f route  non  lo  destar," 

I  sang  with  the  musicians,  waving  and  waving  and 
waving  my  handkerchief  to  the  departing  carriage. 
Now  I  saw  my  friend  lean  over  and  take  the 
beautiful  lady  by  the  hand,  and  together  they  stood 
up  in  the  carriage  and  waved  their  handkerchiefs  to 


160  THE  BEAUTIFUL  LADY 

me.     Then,  but  not  because  they  had  passed  out 
of  sight,  I  could  see  them  not  any  longer. 

They  were  so  good — that  kind  Poor  Jr.  and  the 
beautiful  lady;  they  seemed  like  dear  children — as 
if  they  had  been  my  own  dear  children. 
THE  END 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 


CHAPTER  I 

A   CHANGE   OF   LODGING 


v  •  ^BGE  glass-domed  "palm-room"  of  the  Grand 
Continental  Hotel  Magnifique  in  Rome  is 
-**  of  vasty  heights  and  distances,  filled  with  a 
mellow  green  light  which  filters  down  languidly 
through  the  upper  foliage  of  tall  palms,  so  that  the 
two  hundred  people  who  may  be  refreshing  or  dis- 
playing themselves  there  at  the  tea-hour  have 
something  the  look  of  under- water  creatures  playing 
upon  the  sea-bed.  They  appear,  however,  to  be 
unaware  of  their  condition;  even  the  ladies,  most 
like  anemones  of  that  gay  assembly,  do  not  seem  to 
know  it;  and  when  the  Hungarian  band  (crustacean- 
like  in  costume,  and  therefore  well  within  the  pic- 
ture) has  sheathed  its  flying  tentacles  and  withdrawn 
by  dim  processes,  the  tea-drinkers  all  float  out 
through  the  doors,  instead  of  bubbling  up  and  away 
through  the  filmy  roof.  In  truth,  some  such  exit 
as  that  was  imagined  for  them  by  a  young  man  who 
remained  in  the  aquarium  after  they  had  all  gone, 

late  one  afternoon  of  last  winter.    They  had  been 

163 


164  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

marvelous  enough,  and  to  him  could  have  seemed 
little  more  so  had  they  made  such  a  departure.  He 
could  almost  have  gone  that  way  himself,  so  charged 
was  he  with  the  uplift  of  his  belief  that,  in  spite  of 
the  brilliant  strangeness  of  the  hour  just  past,  he 
had  been  no  fish  out  of  water. 

While  the  waiters  were  clearing  the  little  tables, 
he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  in  a  content  so  rich  it  was 
nearer  ecstasy.  He  could  not  bear  to  disturb  the 
possession  joy  had  taken  of  him,  and,  like  a  half- 
awake  boy  clinging  to  a  dream  that  his  hitherto 
unkind  sweetheart  has  kissed  him,  lingered  on  in 
the  enchanted  atmosphere,  his  eyes  still  full  of  all 
they  had  beheld  with  such  delight,  detaining  and 
smiling  upon  each  revelation  of  this  fresh  memory — 
the  flashingly  lovely  faces,  the  dreamily  lovely  faces, 
the  pearls  and  laces  of  the  anemone  ladies,  the 
color  and  romantic  fashion  of  the  uniforms,  and 
the  old  princes  who  had  been  pointed  out  to  him: 
splendid  old  men  wearing  white  mustaches  and 
single  eye-glasses,  as  he  had  so  long  hoped  and 
dreamed  they  did. 

"Mine  own  people!"  he  whispered.  "I  have  come 
unto  mine  own  at  last.  Mine  own  people!"  After 
long  waiting  (he  told  himself),  he  had  seen  them — 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  165 

the  people  he  had  wanted  to  see,  wanted  to  know, 
wanted  to  be  of!  Ever  since  he  had  begun  to  read  of 
the  "beau  monde"  in  his  schooldays,  he  had  yearned 
to  know  some  such  sumptuous  reality  as  that  which 
had  come  true  to-day,  when,  at  last,  in  Rome  he  had 
seen — as  he  wrote  home  that  night — "the  finest  es- 
sence of  Old- World  society  mingling  in  Cosmopolis." 
Artificial  odors  (too  heavy  to  keep  up  with  the 
crowd  that  had  worn  them)  still  hung  about  him; 
he  breathed  them  deeply,  his  eyes  half-closed  and 
his  lips  noiselessly  formed  themselves  to  a  quotation 
from  one  of  his  own  poems: 

While  trails  of  scent,  like  cobweb's  films 

Slender  and  faint  and  rare, 
Of  roses,  and  rich,  fair  fabrics, 

Cling  on  the  stirless  air. 
The  sibilance  of  voices, 

At  a  wave  of  Milady's  glove, 
Is  stilled 

He  stopped  short,  interrupting  himself  with  a 
half -cough  of  laughter  as  he  remembered  the  inspira- 
tion of  these  verses.  He  had  written  them  three 
months  ago,  at  home  in  Cranston,  Ohio,  the  evening 
after  Anna  McCord's  "coming-out  tea."  "Milady" 
meant  Mrs.  McCord;  she  had  "stilled"  the  conversa- 
tion of  her  guests  when  Mary  Kramer  (whom  the 


166  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

poem  called  a  "sweet,  pale  singer")  rose  to  sing 
Mavourneen;  and  the  stanza  closed  with  the  right 
word  to  rhyme  with  "glove."  He  felt  a  contemptu- 
ous pity  for  his  little,  untraveled,  provincial  self  of 
three  months  ago,  if,  indeed,  it  could  have  been 
himself  who  wrote  verses  about  Anna  McCord's 
"coming-out  tea"  and  referred  to  poor,  good  old 
Mrs.  McCord  as  "Milady"! 

The  second  stanza  had  intimated  a  conviction  of 
a  kind  which  only  poets  may  reveal: 

She  sang  to  that  great  assembly, 

They  thought,  as  they  praised  her  tome; 

But  she  and  my  heart  knew  better: 
Her  song  was  for  me  alone. 

He  had  told  the  truth  when  he  wrote  of  Mary 
Kramer  as  pale  and  sweet,  and  she  was  paler,  but 
no  less  sweet,  when  he  came  to  say  good-by  to  her 
before  he  sailed.  Her  face,  as  it  was  at  the  final 
moment  of  the  protracted  farewell,  shone  before  him 
very  clearly  now  for  a  moment:  young,  plaintive, 
white,  too  lamentably  honest  to  conceal  how  much 
her  "God-speed"  to  him  cost  her.  He  came  very 
near  telling  her  how  fond  of  her  he  had  always  been; 
came  near  giving  up  his  great  trip  to  remain  with 
her  always. 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  167 

"Ah!"  He  shivered  as  one  shivers  at  the  thought 
of  disaster  narrowly  averted.  "The  fates  were  good 
that  I  only  came  near  it!" 

He  took  from  his  breast-pocket  an  engraved  card, 
without  having  to  search  for  it,  because  during  the 
few  days  the  card  had  been  in  his  possession  the 
action  had  become  a  habit. 

"Comtesse  de  Vaurigard,"  was  the  name  engraved, 
and  below  was  written  in  pencil:  "To  remember 
Monsieur  Robert  Russ  Mellin  he  promise  to  come 
to  tea  Hotel  Magnifique,  Roma,  at  five  o'clock 
Thursday." 

There  had  been  disappointment  in  the  first  stages 
of  his  journey,  and  that  had  gone  hard  with  Mellin. 
Europe  had  been  his  goal  so  long,  and  his  hopes  of 
pleasure  grew  so  high  when  (after  his  years  of  saving 
and  putting  by,  bit  by  bit,  out  of  his  salary  in  a 
real-estate  office)  he  drew  actually  near  the  shining 
horizon.  But  London,  his  first  stopping-place,  had 
given  him  some  dreadful  days.  He  knew  nobody, 
and  had  not  understood  how  heavily  sheer  loneliness 
— which  was  something  he  had  never  felt  until 
then — would  weigh  upon  his  spirits.  In  Cranston, 
where  the  young  people  "grew  up  together,"  and 


168  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

where  he  met  a  dozen  friends  on  the  street  in  a 
half -hour's  walk,  he  often  said  that  he  "liked  to  be 
alone  with  himself."  London,  after  his  first  excite- 
ment hi  merely  being  there,  taught  him  his  mistake, 
chilled  him  with  weeks  of  forbidding  weather,  puzzled 
and  troubled  him. 

He  was  on  his  way  to  Paris  when  (as  he  recorded 
in  his  journal)  a  light  came  into  his  life.  This 
illumination  first  shone  for  him  by  means  of  one 
Cooley,  son  and  inheritor  of  all  that  had  belonged 
to  the  late  great  Cooley,  of  Cooley  Mills,  Connecticut. 
Young  Cooley,  a  person  of  cherry  manners  and  bright 
waistcoats,  was  one  of  MeUin's  few  sea-acquain- 
tances; they  had  played  shuffle-board  together  on 
the  steamer  during  odd  half-hours  when  Mr.  Cooley 
found  it  possible  to  absent  himself  from  poker  in  the 
smoking-room;  and  they  encountered  each  other 
again  on  the  channel  boat  crossing  to  Calais. 

"Hey!"  was  Mr.  Cooley's  lively  greeting.  "I  'm 
meetin'  lots  of  people  I  know,  to-day.  You  runnin' 
over  to  Paris,  too?  Come  up  to  the  boat-deck  and 
meet  the  Countess  de  Vaurigard." 

"Who?"  said  Mellin,  red  with  pleasure,  yet 
fearing  that  he  did  not  hear  aright. 

"The  Countess  de  Vaurigard.     Queen!  met  her  in 


fflS  OWN  PEOPLE  169 

London.  Sneyd  introduced  me  to  her.  You  re- 
member Sneyd  on  the  steamer?  Baldish  English- 
man— red  nose — doesn't  talk  much — younger 
brother  of  Lord  Rugden,  so  he  says.  Played  poker 
some.  Well,  yes!" 

"I  saw  him.     I  did  n't  meet  him." 

"You  did  n't  miss  a  whole  lot.  Fact  is,  before  we 
landed  I  almost  had  him  sized  up  for  queer,  but 
when  he  introduced  me  to  the  Countess  I  saw  my 
mistake.  He  must  be  the  real  thing.  She  certainly 
is!  You  come  along  up  and  see." 

So  Mellin  followed,  to  make  his  bow  before  a  thin, 
dark,  charmingly  pretty  young  woman,  who  smiled 
up  at  him  from  her  deck-chair  through  an  enhancing 
mystery  of  veils;  and  presently  he  found  himself 
sitting  beside  her.  He  could  not  help  trembling 
slightly  at  first,  but  he  would  have  given  a  great 
deal  if,  by  some  miraculous  vision,  Mary  Kramer 
and  other  friends  of  his  in  Cranston  could  have  seen 
him  engaged  in  what  he  thought  of  as  "conversa- 
tional badinage"  with  the  Comtesse  de  Vaurigard. 

Both  the  lady  and  her  name  thrilled  him.  He 
thought  he  remembered  the  latter  in  Froissart:  it 
conjured  up  "baronial  halls"  and  "donjon  keeps," 
rang  resonantly  in  his  mind  like  "Let  the  portcullis 


170  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

fall!"  At  home  he  had  been  wont  to  speak  of  the 
"oldest  families  in  Cranston,"  complaining  of  the 
invasions  of  "new  people"  into  the  social  territory 
of  the  McCords  and  Mellins  and  Kramers — a 
pleasant  conception  which  the  presence  of  a  De 
Vaurigard  revealed  to  him  as  a  petty  and  shameful 
fiction;  and  yet  his  humility,  like  his  little  fit  of 
trembling,  was  of  short  duration,  for  the  gay  gen- 
iality of  Madame  de  Vaurigard  put  him  amazingly 
at  ease. 

At  Calais  young  Cooley  (with  a  matter-of-course 
air,  and  not  seeming  to  feel  the  need  of  asking 
permission)  accompanied  her  to  a  compartment, 
and  Mellin  walked  with  them  to  the  steps  of  the 
coach,  where  he  paused,  murmuring  some  words  of 
farewell. 

Madame  de  Vaurigard  turned  to  him  with  a 
prettily  assumed  dismay. 

"What!  You  stay  at  Calais?"  she  cried,  pausing 
with  one  foot  on  the  step  to  ascend.  "Oh!  I  am 
sorry  for  you.  Calais  is  ter-rible!" 

"No.     I  am  going  on  to  Paris." 

"So?  You  have  frien's  in  another  coach  which 
you  wish  to  be  wiz?" 

"No,  no,  indeed,"  he  stammered  hastily. 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  171 

"Well,  my  frien',"  she  laughed  gayly,  "w'y  don' 
you  come  wiz  us?" 

Blushing,  he  followed  Cooley  into  the  coach,  to 
spend  five  happy  hours,  utterly  oblivious  of  the 
bright  French  landscape  whirling  by  outside  the 
window. 

There  ensued  a  month  of  conscientious  sightseeing 
in  Paris,  and  that  unfriendly  city  afforded  him  only 
one  glimpse  of  the  Countess.  She  whizzed  by  him 
in  a  big  touring-car  one  afternoon  as  he  stood  on  an 
"isle  of  safety"  at  the  foot  of  the  Champs  Elysees. 
Cooley  was  driving  the  car.  The  raffish,  elderly 
Englishman  (whose  name,  Mellin  knew,  was  Sneyd) 
sat  with  him,  and  beside  Madame  de  Vaurigard  in 
the  tonneau  lolled  a  gross-looking  man — unmis- 
takably an  American — with  a  jovial,  red,  smooth- 
shaven  face  and  several  chins.  Brief  as  the  glimpse 
was,  Mellin  had  time  to  receive  a  distinctly  disagree- 
able impression  of  this  person,  and  to  wonder  how 
Heaven  could  vouchsafe  the  society  of  Madame  de 
Vaurigard  to  so  coarse  a  creature. 

All  the  party  were  dressed  as  for  the  road,  gray 
with  dust,  and  to  all  appearances  in  a  merry  mood. 
Mellin 's  heart  gave  a  leap  when  he  saw  that  the 
Countess  recognized  him.  Her  eyes,  shining  under 


172  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

a  white  veil,  met  his  for  just  the  instant  before  she 
was  quite  by,  and  when  the  machine  had  passed  a 
little  handkerchief  waved  for  a  moment  from  the 
side  of  the  tonneau  where  she  sat. 

With  that  he  drew  the  full  breath  of  Romance. 

He  had  always  liked  to  believe  that  "grandes 
dames"  leaned  back  in  the  luxurious  upholstery  of 
their  victorias,  landaulettes,  daumonts  or  auto- 
mobiles with  an  air  of  inexpressible  though  languid 
hauteur.  The  Newport  letter  in  the  Cranston 
Telegraph  often  referred  to  it.  But  the  gayety  of 
that  greeting  from  the  Countess'  little  handkerchief 
was  infinitely  refreshing,  and  Mellin  decided  that 
animation  was  more  becoming  than  hauteur — even 
to  a  "grande  dame." 

That  night  he  wrote  (almost  without  effort)  the 
verses  published  in  the  Cranston  Telegraph  two 
weeks  later.  They  began: 

Marquise,  ma  belle,  with  your  kerchief  of  lace 

Awave  from  your  flying  car, 
And  your  slender  hand — 

The  hand  to  which  he  referred  was  the  same 
which  had  arrested  his  gondola  and  his  heart  simul- 
taneously, five  days  ago,  in  Venice.  He  was  on  his 
way  to  the  station  when  Madame  de  Vaurigard's 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  173 

gondola  shot  out  into  the  Grand  Canal  from  a  narrow 
channel,  and  at  her  signal  both  boats  paused. 

"Ah!  but  you  fly  away!"  she  cried,  lifting  her 
eyebrows  mournfully,  as  she  saw  the  steamer-trunk 
in  his  gondola.  "You  are  goin'  return  to  America?" 

"No.     I'm  just  leaving  for  Rome." 

"Well,  in  three  day'  I  am  goin'  to  Rome!"  She 
clapped  her  hands  lightly  and  laughed.  "You  know 
this  is  three  time'  we  meet  jus'  by  chance,  though 
that  second  time  it  was  so  quick — pff!  like  that — we 
didn't  talk  much  togezzer!  Monsieur  Mellin,"  she 
laughed  again,  "I  think  we  mus'  be  frien's.  Three 
time' — an'  we  are  both  goin'  to  Rome!  Monsieut 
Mellin,  you  believe  in  Fate?" 

With  a  beating  heart  he  did. 

Thence  came  the  invitation  to  meet  her  at  the 
Magnifique  for  tea,  and  the  card  she  scribbled  for 
him  with  a  silver  pencil.  She  gave  it  with  the 
prettiest  gesture,  leaning  from  her  gondola  to  his 
as  they  parted.  She  turned  again,  as  the  water 
between  them  widened,  and  with  her  "Au  revoir" 
offered  him  a  faintly  wistful  smile  to  remem- 
ber. 

All  the  way  to  Rome  the  noises  of  the  train  beat 
out  the  measure  of  his  Parisian  verses: 


174  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

Marquise,  ma  belle,  with  your  kerchief  of  lace 
Awave  from  your  flying  car — 

He  came  out  of  his  reverie  with  a  start.  A  dozen 
men  and  women,  dressed  for  dinner,  with  a  gold-fish 
officer  or  two  among  them,  swam  leisurely  through 
the  aquarium  on  their  way  to  the  hotel  restaurant 
They  were  the  same  kind  of  people  who  had  sat  at 
the  little  tables  for  tea — people  of  the  great  world, 
thought  Mellin:  no  vulgar  tourists  or  "trippers" 
among  them;  and  he  shuddered  at  the  remembrance 
of  his  pension  (whither  it  was  time  to  return)  and 
its  conscientious  students  of  Baedeker,  its  dingy 
halls  and  permanent  smell  of  cold  food.  Suddenly 
a  high  resolve  lit  his  face:  he  got  his  coat  and  hat 
from  the  brass-and-blue  custodian  in  the  lobby, 
and  without  hesitation  entered  the  "bureau." 

"I  *m  not  quite  satisfied  where  I  am  staying — 
where  I  'm  stopping,  that  is,"  he  said  to  the  clerk. 
"I  think  I  '11  take  a  room  here." 

"Very  well,  sir.  Where  shall  I  send  for  your 
luggage?" 

"I  shall  bring  it  myself,"  replied  Mellin  coldly, 
"in  my  cab." 

He  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  reveal  the  fact 
that  he  was  staying  at  one  of  the  cheaper  pensions: 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  175 

and  it  may  be  mentioned  that  this  reticence  (as 
well  as  the  somewhat  chilling,  yet  careless,  manner 
of  a  gentleman  of  the  "great  world"  which  he 
assumed  when  he  returned  with  his  trunk  and  bags) 
very  substantially  increased  the  rate  put  upon  the 
room  he  selected  at  the  Magnifique.  However,  it 
was  with  great  satisfaction  that  he  found  himself 
installed  in  the  hotel,  and  he  was  too  recklessly 
exhilarated,  by  doing  what  he  called  the  "right 
thing,"  to  waste  any  time  wondering  what  the 
"right  thing"  would  do  to  the  diminishing  pad  of 
express  checks  he  carried  in  the  inside  pocket  of  his 
waistcoat. 

"Better  live  a  fortnight  like  a  gentleman,"  he 
said,  as  he  tossed  his  shoes  into  a  buhl  cabinet, 
"than  vegetate  like  a  tourist  for  a  year." 

He  had  made  his  entrance  into  the  "great  world" 
and  he  meant  to  hold  his  place  in  it  as  one  "to  the 
manor  born."  Its  people  should  not  find  him 
lacking:  he  would  wear  their  manner  and  speak 
their  language — no  gaucherie  should  betray  him, 
no  homely  phrase  escape  his  lips. 

This  was  the  chance  he  had  always  hoped  for, 
and  when  he  fell  asleep  in  his  gorgeous,  canopied 
bed,  his  soul  was  uplifted  with  happy  expectations. 


CHAPTER  II 

MUSIC    ON   THE   PINCIO 


Y  •  ^iHE  following  afternoon  found  him  still  in 
that  enviable  condition  as  he  stood  listening 

-^-  to  the  music  on  the  Pincian  Hill.  He  had 
it  of  rumor  that  the  Fashion  of  Rome  usually  took 
a  turn  there  before  it  went  to  tea,  and  he  had  it 
from  the  lady  herself  that  Madame  de  Vaurigard 
would  be  there.  Presently  she  came,  reclining  in  a 
victoria,  the  harness  of  her  horses  flashing  with  gold 
in  the  sunshine.  She  wore  a  long  ermine  stole;  her 
hat  was  ermine;  she  carried  a  muff  of  the  same  fur, 
and  Mellin  thought  it  a  perfect  finish  to  the  picture 
that  a  dark  gentleman  of  an  appearance  most  dis- 
tinguished should  be  sitting  beside  her.  An  Italian 
noble,  surely! 

She  saw  the  American  at  once,  nodded  to  him 
and  waved  her  hand.  The  victoria  went  on  a  little 
way  beyond  the  turn  of  the  drive,  drew  out  of  the 
line  of  carriages,  and  stopped. 

"Ah,  Monsieur  Mellin,"  she  cried  as  he  came  up 

176 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  177 

"I  am  glad!  I  was  so  foolish  yesterday  I  didn' 
give  you  the  address  of  my  little  apartment  an* 
I  forgot  to  ask  you  what  is  your  hotel.  I  toF  you 
I  would  come  here  for  my  drive,  but  still  I  might 
have  lost  you  for  ever.  See  what  many  people! 
It  is  jus'  that  Fate  again." 

She  laughed,  and  looked  to  the  Italian  for  sym- 
pathy in  her  kindly  merriment.  He  smiled  cordially 
upon  her,  then  lifted  his  hat  and  smiled  as  cordially 
upon  Mellin. 

"I  am  so  happy  to  fin'  myself  in  Rome  that  I 
forget" — Madame  de  Vaurigard  went  on — "ever9 sing! 
But  now  I  mus'  make  sure  not  to  lose  you.  What  is 
your  hotel?" 

"Oh,  the  Magnifique,"  Mellin  answered  carelessly. 
"I  suppose  everybody  that  one  knows  stops  there. 
One  does  stop  there,  when  one  is  in  Rome,  does  n't 
one?" 

"Everybody  go'  there  for  tea,  and  to  eat,  some- 
time, but  to  stay — ah,  that  is  for  the  American!" 
she  laughed.  "That  is  for  you  who  are  all  so  aborn- 
in-a&-ly  rich!"  She  smiled  to  the  Italian  again, 
and  both  of  them  smiled  beamingly  on  Mellin. 

"But  that  is  n't  always  our  fault,  is  it?"  said 
Mellin  easily. 


178  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

"Aha!  You  mean  you  are  of  the  new  generation, 
of  the  yo'ng  American'  who  come  over  here  an'  try 
to  spen'  these  immense  fortune' — those  'pile' — your 
father  or  your  gran 'father  make!  I  know  quite 
well.  Ah?" 

"Well,"  he  hesitated,  smiling,  "I  suppose  it  does 
look  a  little  by  way  of  being  like  that." 

"Wicked  fellow!"  She  leaned  forward  and  tapped 
his  shoulder  chidingly  with  two  fingers.  "I  know 
what  you  wish  the  mos'  in  the  worl' — you  wish  to 
get  into  mischief.  That  is  it!  No,  sir,  I  will  jus* 
take  you  in  han* !" 

"When  will  you  take  me?"  he  asked  boldly. 

At  this,  the  pleasant  murmur  of  laughter — half 
actual  and  half  suggested — with  which  she  under- 
lined the  conversation,  became  loud  and  clear,  as 
she  allowed  her  vivacious  glance  to  strike  straight 
into  his  upturned  eyes,  and  answered: 

"As  long  as  a  little  turn  roun'  the  hill,  now. 
Cavaliere  Corni " 

To  Mellin's  surprise  and  delight  the  Italian 
immediately  descended  from  the  victoria  without 
the  slightest  appearance  of  irritation;  on  the  con- 
trary, he  was  urbane  to  a  fine  degree,  and,  upon 
Madame  de  Vaurigard's  formally  introducing  him 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  179 

to  Mellin,  saluted  the  latter  with  grave  politeness, 
expressing  in  good  English  a  hope  that  they  might 
meet  often.  When  the  American  was  installed  at 
the  Countess'  side  she  spoke  to  the  driver  hi  Italian, 
and  they  began  to  move  slowly  along  the  ilex  ave- 
nue, the  coachman  reining  his  horses  to  a  walk. 

"You  speak  Italian?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,  not  a  great  deal  more  than  a  smattering," 
he  replied  airily — a  truthful  answer,  inasmuch  as  & 
vocabulary  consisting  simply  of  "quanty  costy"  and 
"troppo"  cannot  be  seriously  considered  much  more 
than  a  smattering.  Fortunately  she  made  no  test 
of  his  linguistic  attainment,  but  returned  to  her 
former  subject. 

"Ah,  yes,  ail  the  worl'  to-day  know'  the  new  class 
of  American,"  she  said — "your  class.  Many  year' 
ago  we  have  another  class  which  Europe  did  n'  like. 
That  was  when  the  American  was  terri-ble!  He 
was  the — what  is  that  you  call? — oh,  yes;  he  'make 
himself,'  you  say:  that  is  it.  My  frien,'  he  was 
abomin-o&fe/  He  brag';  he  talk'  through  the  nose; 
yes,  and  he  was  niggardly,  rich  as  he  was!  But  you, 
you  yo'ng  men  of  the  new  generation,  you  are  gentle- 
men of  the  idleness;  you  are  aristocrats,  with  polish 
an'  with  culture.  An*  yet  you  throw  your  money 


180  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

away — yes,  you  throw  it  to  poor  Europe  as  if  to  a 
beggar!" 

"No,  no,"  he  protested  with  an  indulgent  laugh 
which  confessed  that  the  truth  was  really  "Yes,  yes." 

"Your  smile  betray'  you!"  she  cried  triumphantly. 
"More  than  jus'  bein'  guilty  of  that  fault,  I  am  goin* 
to  tell  you  of  others.  You  are  not  the  ole-time — 
what  is  it  you  say? — Ah,  yes,  the  'goody-goody/ 
I  have  heard  my  great  American  frien',  Honor-able 
Chanlair  Pedlow,  call  it  the  Sonday-school.  Is  it 
not?  Yes,  you  are  not  the  Sonday-school  yo'rig 
men,  you  an'  your  class!" 

"No,"  he  said,  bestowing  a  long  glance  upon  a 
stout  nurse  who  was  sitting  on  a  bench  near  the 
drive  and  attending  to  twins  in  a  perambulator. 
"No,  we  're  not  exactly  dissenting  parsons." 

"Ah,  no!"  She  shook  her  head  at  him  prettily. 
"You  are  wicked!  You  are  up  into  all  the  mischief! 
Have  I  not  hear  what  wild  sums  you  risk  at  your 
game,  that  poker?  You  are  famous  for  it." 

"Oh,  we  play,"  he  admitted  with  a  reckless 
laugh,  "and  I  suppose  we  do  play  rather  high." 

"High!"  she  echoed.  "Soumnds!  But  that  is 
not  all.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  naughty  one!  Have  I  not 
observe'  you  lookin'  at  these  pretty  creature',  the 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  181 

little  eontadina-girl,  an'  the  poor  ladies  who  have 
hire'  their  carriages  for  two  lire  to  drive  up  and  down 
the  Pincio  in  their  bes'  dress  an'  be  admire'  by  the 
yo'ng  American  while  the  music  play'?  Which  one, 
I  wonder,  is  it  on  whose  wrist  you  would  mos'  like 
to  fasten  a  bracelet  of  diamon's?  Wicked,  I  have 
watch'  you  look  at  them ' 

"No,  no,"  he  interrupted  earnestly.  "I  have 
not  once  looked  away  from  you,  I  could  nt!" 

Their  eyes  met,  but  instantly  hers  were  lowered; 
the  bright  smile  with  which  she  had  been  rallying 
him  faded,  and  there  was  a  pause  during  which  he 
felt  that  she  had  become  very  grave.  When  she 
spoke,  it  was  with  a  little  quaver,  and  the  con- 
trolled pathos  of  her  voice  was  so  intense  that  it 
evoked  a  sympathetic  catch  in  his  own  throat. 

"But,  my  frien',  if  it  should  be  that  I  cannot  wish 
you  to  look  so  at  me,  or  to  speak  so  to  me?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon!"  he  exclaimed,  almost 
incoherently.  "I  did  n't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings. 
I  would  n't  do  anything  you  'd  think  ungentle- 
manly  for  the  world!" 

Her  eyes  lifted  again  to  his  with  what  he  had  no 
difficulty  in  recognizing  as  a  look  of  perfect  trust; 
but,  behind  that,  he  perceived  a  darkling  sadness. 


182  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

"I  know  it  is  true,"  she  murmured — "I  know. 
But  you  see  there  are  time'  when  a  woman  has 
sorrow — sorrow  of  one  kind — when  she  mus'  be  sure 
that  there  is  only — only  rispec'  in  the  hearts  of  her 
frien's." 

With  that,  the  intended  revelation  was  complete, 
and  the  young  man  understood,  as  clearly  as  if  she 
had  told  him  in  so  many  words,  that  she  was  not 
a  widow  and  that  her  husband  was  the  cause  of 
her  sorrow.  His  quickened  instinct  marvelously 
divined  (or  else  it  was  conveyed  to  him  by  some 
intangible  method  of  hers)  that  the  Count  de 
Vaurigard  was  a  very  bad  case,  but  that  she  would 
not  divorce  him. 

"I  know,"  he  answered,  profoundly  touched. 
"I  understand." 

In  silent  gratitude  she  laid  her  hand  for  a  second 
upon  his  sleeve.  Then  her  face  brightened,  and  she 
said  gayly: 

"But  we  shall  not  talk  of  me!  Let  us  see  how  we 
can  keep  you  out  of  mischief  at  leas'  for  a  little 
while.  I  know  very  well  what  you  will  do  to-night: 
you  will  go  to  Salone  Margherita  an'  sit  in  a  box 
Kke  all  the  wicked  Americans 

"No,  indeed,  I  shall  not!" 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  183 

"Ah,  yes,  you  will!"  she  laughed.  "But  until 
dinner  let  me  keep  you  from  wickedness.  Come 
to  tea  jus'  wiz  me,  not  at  the  hotel,  but  at  the  little 
apartment  I  have  taken,  where  it  is  quiet.  The 
music  is  finish',  an'  all  those  pretty  girl'  are  goin' 
away,  you  see.  I  am  not  selfish  if  I  take  you  from 
the  Pincio  now.  You  will  come?" 


CHAPTER  m 

GLAMOUR 

IT  was  some  fair  dream  that  would  be  gone  too 
soon,  he  told  himself,  as  they  drove  rapidly 
through  the  twilight  streets,  down  from  the 
Pincio  and  up  the  long  slope  of  the  Quirinal.  They 
came  to  a  stop  in  the  gray  courtyard  of  a  palazzo, 
and  ascended  in  a  sleepy  elevator  to  the  fifth  floor. 
Emerging,  they  encountered  a  tall  man  who  was 
turning  away  from  the  Countess'  door,  which  he 
had  just  closed.  The  landing  was  not  lighted,  and 
for  a  moment  he  failed  to  see  the  American  following 
Madame  de  Vaurigard. 

"Eow,  it 's  you,  is  it,"  he  said  informally.  "Wait- 
in*  a  devil  of  a  long  time  for  you.  I  've  gawt  a 
message  for  you.  He  's  comin*.  He  writes  that 
Cooley— " 

"Attention!"  she  interrupted  under  her  breath, 
and,  stepping  forward  quickly,  touched  the  bell. 
"I  have  brought  a  frien'  of  our  dear,  droll  Cooley 

with  me  to  tea.    Monsieur  Mellin,  you  mus'  make 

184 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  185 

acquaintance  with  Monsieur  Sneyd.  He  is  English, 
but  we  shall  forgive  him  because  he  is  a  such  ole 
frien'  of  mine." 

"Ah,  yes,"  said  Mellin.  "Remember  seeing  you 
on  the  boat,  running  across  the  pond." 

"Yes,  ev  coss,"  responded  Mr.  Sneyd  cordially. 
"I  waws  n't  so  fawchnit  as  to  meet  you,  but  dyuh 
eold  Cooley's  talked  ev  you  often.  Heop  I  sh'll  see 
maw  of  you  hyuh." 

A  very  trim,  very  intelligent-looking  maid  opened 
the  door,  and  the  two  men  followed  Madame  de 
Vaurigard  into  a  square  hall,  hung  with  tapestries 
and  lit  by  two  candles  of  a  Brobdingnagian  species 
Mellin  had  heretofore  seen  only  in  cathedrals.  Here 
Mr.  Sneyd  paused. 

"I  weon't  be  bawthring  you,"  he  said.  "Just  a 
wad  with  you,  Cantess,  and  I  'm  off." 

The  intelligent-looking  maid  drew  back  some 
heavy  curtains  leading  to  a  salon  beyond  the  hall, 
and  her  mistress  smiled  brightly  at  Mellin. 

"I  shall  keep  him  to  jus'  his  one  word,"  she  said, 
as  the  young  man  passed  between  the  curtains. 

It  was  a  nobly  proportioned  room  that  he  entered, 
so  large  that,  in  spite  of  the  amount  of  old  furniture 
it  contained,  the  first  impression  it  gave  was  one  of 


186  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

spaciousness.  Panels  of  carved  and  blackened  wood 
lined  the  walls  higher  than  his  head;  above  them, 
Spanish  leather  gleamed  here  and  there  with  flicker- 
ings  of  red  and  gilt,  reflecting  dimly  a  small  but  brisk 
wood  fire  which  crackled  in  a  carved  stone  fireplace. 
His  feet  slipped  on  the  floor  of  polished  tiles  and 
wandered  from  silky  rugs  to  lose  themselves  in 
great  black  bear  skins  as  in  unmown  sward.  He 
went  from  the  portrait  of  a  "cinquecento"  cardinal 
to  a  splendid  tryptich  set  over  a  Gothic  chest,  from 
a  cabinet  sheltering  a  collection  of  old  glass  to  an 
Annunciation  by  an  unknown  Primitive.  He  told 
himself  that  this  was  a  "room  in  a  book,"  and  became 
dreamily  assured  that  he  was  a  man  in  a  book. 
Finally  he  stumbled  upon  something  almost  gro- 
tesquely out  of  pla,ce:  a  large,  new,  perfectly-ap- 
pointed card-table  with  a  sliding  top,  a  smooth, 
thick,  green  cover  and  patent  compartments. 

He  halted  before  this  incongruity,  regarding  it 
with  astonishment.  Then  a  light  laugh  rippled 
behind  him,  and  he  turned  to  find  Madame  de 
Vaurigard  seated  in  a  big  red  Venetian  chair  by  the 
fire. 

She  wore  a  black  lace  dress,  almost  severe  in 
fashion,  which  gracefully  emphasized  her  slender- 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  187 

ness;  and  she  sat  with  her  knees  crossed,  the  fire- 
light twinkling  on  the  beads  of  her  slipper,  on  her 
silken  instep,  and  flashing  again  from  the  rings 
upon  the  slender  fingers  she  had  clasped  about  her 
knee. 

She  had  lit  a  thin,  long  Russian  cigarette. 

"You  see?"  she  laughed.  "I  mus'  keep  up  with 
the  time.  I  mus'  do  somesing  to  hold  my  frien's 
about  me.  Even  the  ladies  like  to  play  now — that 
breedge  w'ich  is  so  tiresome — they  play,  play,  play! 
And  you — you  Americans,  you  refuse  to  endure  us 
if  we  do  not  let  you  play.  So  for  my  frien's  when 
they  come  to  my  house — if  they  wish  it,  there  is 
that  foolish  little  table.  I  fear" — she  concluded 
with  a  bewitching  affectation  of  sadness — "they 
prefer  that  to  talkin'  wiz  me." 

"You  know  that  could  n't  be  so,  Comtesse"  he 
said.  "I  would  rather  talk  to  you  than — than — 

"Ah,  yes,  you  say  so,  Monsieur!"  She  looked  at 
him  gravely;  a  little  sigh  seemed  to  breathe  upon 
her  lips;  she  leaned  forward  nearer  the  fire,  her  face 
wistful  in  the  thin,  rosy  light,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
he  had  never  seen  anything  so  beautiful  in  his  life. 

He  came  across  to  her  and  sat  upon  a  stool  at  her 
feet.  "On  my  soul,"  he  began  huskily,  "I  swear— 


188  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

She  laid  her  finger  on  her  lips,  shaking  her  head 
gently;  and  he  was  silent,  while  the  intelligent 
maid — at  the  moment  entering — arranged  a  tea- 
table  and  departed. 

"American  an'  Russian,  they  are  the  worse," 
said  the  Countess  thoughtfully,  as  she  served  him 
with  a  generous  cup,  laced  with  rum,  "but  the 
American  he  is  the  bes'  to  play  wiz."  Mellin  found 
her  irresistible  when  she  said  "wiz.* 

"Why  is  that?" 

"Oh,  the  Russian  play  high,  yes — but  the  Ameri- 
can"— she  laughed  delightedly  and  stretched  her 
arms  wide — "he  make'  it  all  a  joke!  He  is  beeg  like 
his  beeg  country.  If  he  win  or  lose,  he  don'  care! 
Ah,  I  mus'  tell  you  of  my  great  American  frien', 
that  Honor-able  Chanlair  Pedlow,  who  is  comin'  to 
Rome.  You  have  heard  of  Honor-able  Chanlair 
Pedlow  in  America?" 

"I  remember  hearing  that  name." 

"Ah,  I  shall  make  you  know  him.  He  is  a  man  of 
distinction;  he  did  sit  in  your  Chamber  of  Deputies 
— what  you  call  it-?-— yes,  your  Con-gress.  He  is 
funny,  eccentric — always  he  roar  like  a  lion — • 
Bourn! — but  so  simple,  so  good,  a  man  of  such  fine 
heart — so  lovable!" 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  189 

"I  '11  be  glad  to  meet  him,"  said  Mellin  coldly. 

"An',  oh,  yes,  I  almos'  forget  to  tell  you,"  she 
went  on,  "your  frien',  that  dear  Cooley,  he  is  on 
his  way  from  Monte  Carlo  in  his  automobile.  I 
have  a  note  from  him  to-day." 

"Good  sort  of  fellow,  little  Cooley,  in  his  way," 
remarked  her  companion  graciously.  "Not  espe- 
cially intellectual  or  that,  you  know.  His  father  was 
a  manufacturer  chap,  I  believe,  or  something  of  the 
sort.  I  suppose  you  saw  a  lot  of  him  in  Paris?" 

"Eh,  I  thought  he  is  dead!"  cried  Madame  de 
Vaurigard. 

"The  father  is.     I  mean,  little  Cooley." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  laughed  softly.  "We  had  some  gay 
times,  a  little  party  of  us.  We  shall  be  happy  here, 
too;  you  will  see.  I  mus'  make  a  little  dinner  very 
soon,  but  not  unless  you  will  come.  You  will?" 

"Do  you  want  me  very  much?" 

He  placed  his  empty  cup  on  the  table  and  leaned 
closer  to  her,  smiling.  She  did  not  smile  in  response; 
instead,  her  eyes  fell  and  there  was  the  faintest, 
pathetic  quiver  of  her  lower  lip. 

"Already  you  know  that,"  she  said  hi  a  low 
voice. 

She  rose  quickly,   turned  away  from  him  and 


190  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

walked  across  the  room  to  the  curtains  which  opened 
upon  the  hall.  One  of  these  she  drew  back. 

"My  frien,'  you  mus*  go  now,"  she  said  in  the 
same  low  voice.  "To-morrow  I  will  see  you  again. 
Come  at  four  an'  you  shall  drive  with  me — but  not — 
not  more — now.  Please!" 

She  stood  waiting,  not  looking  at  him,  but  with 
head  bent  and  eyes  veiled.  As  he  came  near  she 
put  out  a  limp  hand.  He  held  it  for  a  few  seconds 
of  distinctly  emotional  silence,  then  strode  swiftly 
into  the  hall. 

She  immediately  let  the  curtain  fall  behind  him, 
and  as  he  got  his  hat  and  coat  he  heard  her  catch 
her  breath  sharply  with  a  sound  like  a  little  sob. 

Dazed  with  glory,  he  returned  to  the  hotel.  In 
the  lobby  he  approached  the  glittering  concierge 
and  said  firmly: 

"What  is  the  Salone  Margherita?  Can  you  get 
me  a  box  there  to-night?" 


.  CHAPTER  IV 

GOOD-FELLOWSHIP 

HE  confessed  his  wickedness  to  Madame  de 
Vaurigard  the  next  afternoon  as  they 
drove  out  the  Appian  Way.  "A  fellow 
must  have  just  a  bit  of  a  fling,  you  know,"  he  said; 
"and,  really,  Salone  Margherita  isn't  so  tremendously 
wicked." 

She  shook  her  head  at  him  in  friendly  raillery. 
"All,  that  may  be;  but  how  many  of  those  little 
dancing-girl'  have  you  invite  to  supper  afterward?" 

This  was  a  delicious  accusation,  and  though  he 
shook  his  head  in  virtuous  denial  he  was  before  long 
almost  convinced  that  he  had  given  a  rather  dashing 
supper  after  the  vaudeville  and  had  not  gone  quietly 
back  to  the  hotel,  only  stopping  by  the  way  to 
purchase  an  orange  and  a  pocketful  of  horse-chest- 
nuts to  eat  in  his  room. 

It  was  a  happy  drive  for  Robert  Russ  Mellin, 
though  not  happier  than  that  of  the  next  day. 

Three  afternoons  they  spent  driving  over  the  Cam- 

191 


192  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

pagna,  then  back  to  Madame  de  Vaurigard's  apart- 
ment for  tea  by  the  firelight,  till  the  enraptured 
American  began  to  feel  that  the  dream  in  which  he 
had  come  to  live  must  of  happy  necessity  last  forever. 

On  the  fourth  afternoon,  as  he  stepped  out  of  the 
hotel  elevator  into  the  corridor,  he  encountered  Mr. 
Sneyd. 

"Just  stottin',  eh?"  said  the  Englishman,  taking 
an  envelope  from  his  pocket.  "Lucky  I  caught  you. 
This  is  for  you.  I  just  saw  the  Cantess  and  she 
teold  me  to  give  it  you.  Herry  and  read  it  and  kem 
on  t'  the  Amairikin  Baw.  Chap  I  want  you  to  meet. 
Eold  Cooley's  thyah  too.  Gawt  in  with  his  tourin'- 
caw  at  noon." 

"You  will  forgive,  dear  friend,"  wrote  Madame  de  Vaurigard, 
"if  I  ask  you  that  we  renounce  our  drive  to-day.  You  see,  I  wish 
to  have  that  little  dinner  to-night  and  must  make  preparation. 
Honorable  Chandler  Pedlow  arrived  this  morning  from  Paris  and 
that  droll  Mr.  Cooley  I  have  learn  is  coincidentally  arrived  also. 
You  see  I  think  it  would  be  very  pleasant  to  have  the  dinner  to 
welcome  these  friends  on  their  arrival.  You  will  come  surely — or  I 
shall  be  so  truly  miserable.  You  know  it  perhaps  too  well!  We 
shall  have  a  happy  evening  if  you  come,  to  console  us  for  renouncing 
our  drive.  A  thousand  of  my  prettiest  wishes  for  you. 

"HELENE." 

The  signature  alone  consoled  him.  To  have  that 
note  from  her,  to  own  it,  was  like  having  one  of  her 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  193 

gloves  or  her  fan.  He  would  keep  it  forever,  he 
thought;  indeed,  he  more  than  half  expressed  a  senti- 
ment to  that  effect  in  the  response  which  he  wrote  in 
the  aquarium,  while  Sneyd  waited  for  him  at  a 
table  near  by.  The  Englishman  drew  certain  con- 
clusions in  regard  to  this  reply,  since  it  permitted  a 
waiting  friend  to  consume  three  long  tumblers  of 
brandy-and-soda  before  it  was  finished.  However, 
Mr.  Sneyd  kept  his  reflections  to  himself,  and,  when 
the  epistle  had  been  dispatched  by  a  messenger, 
took  the  American's  arm  and  led  him  to  the 
"American  Bar"  of  the  hotel,  a  region  hitherto  un- 
explored by  Mellin. 

Leaning  against  the  bar  were  Cooley  and  the 
man  whom  Mellin  had  seen  lolling  beside  Madame 
de  Vaurigard  in  Cooley's  automobile  in  Paris,  the 
same  gross  person  for  whom  he  had  instantly  con- 
ceived a  strong  repugnance,  a  feeling  not  at  once 
altered  by  a  closer  view. 

Cooley  greeted  Mellin  uproariously  and  Mr. 
Sneyd  introduced  the  fat  man.  "Mr.  Mellin,  the 
Honorable  Chandler  Pedlow,"  he  said;  nor  was 
the  shock  to  the  first-named  gentleman  lessened  by 
young  Cooley's  adding,  "Best  feller  in  the  world!" 

Mr.  Pedlow's  eyes  were  sheltered  so  deeply  be- 


194  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

neath  florid  rolls  of  flesh,  that  all  one  saw  of  them 
was  an  inscrutable  gleam  of  blue;  but,  small  though 
they  were,  they  were  not  shifty,  for  they  met  Mellin's 
with  a  squareness  that  was  almost  brutal.  He 
offered  a  fat  paw,  wet  by  a  full  glass  which  he  set 
down  too  suddenly  on  the  bar. 

't  "Shake,"  he  said,  in  a  loud  and  husky  voice,  "and 
be  friends!  Tommy,"  he  added  to  the  attendant, 
"another  round  of  Martinis." 

"Not  for  me,"  said  Mellin  hastily.  "I  don't 
often—" 

"What!"  Mr.  Pedlow  roared  suddenly.  "Why, 
the  first  words  Countess  de  Vaurigard  says  to  me 
this  afternoon  was,  *I  want  you  to  meet  my  young 
friend  Mellin,'  she  says;  'the  gamest  little  Indian 
that  ever  come  down  the  pike!  He's  game,'  she 
'says — 'he'll  see  you  all  under  the  table!'  That  's 
what  the  smartest  little  woman  in  the  world,  the 
Countess  de  Vaurigard,  says  about  you." 

This  did  not  seem  very  closely  to  echo  Madame 
de  Vaurigard's  habit  of  phrasing,  but  Mellin  per- 
ceived that  it  might  be  only  the  fat  man's  way  of 
putting  things. 

"You  ain't  goin'  back  on  her,  are  you?"  continued 
Mr.  Pedlow.  "You  ain't  goin'  to  make  her  out  a 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  195 

liar?  I  tell  you,  when  the  Countess  de  Vaurigard 
says  a  man's  game,  he  is  game!"  He  laid  his  big 
paw  cordially  on  Mellin's  shoulder  and  smiled, 
lowering  his  voice  to  a  friendly  whisper.  "And  I  '11 
bet  ten  thousand  dollars  right  out  of  my  pants 
pocket  you  are  game,  too!" 

He  pressed  a  glass  into  the  other's  hand.  Smiling 
feebly,  the  embarrassed  Mellin  accepted  it. 

"Make  it  four  more,  Tommy,"  said  Pedlow. 
"And  here,"  continued  this  thoughtful  man,  "I 
don't  go  bandying  no  ladies'  names  around  a  bar- 
room— that  ain't  my  style — but  I  do  want  to  propose 
a  toast.  I  won't  name  her,  but  you  all  know  who  I 


mean." 


"Sure  we  do,"  interjected  Cooley  warmly. 
"Queen!  That  's  what  she  is." 

"Here  's  to  her,"  continued  Mr.  Pedlow.  "Here  's 
to  her — brightest  and  best — and  no  heel-taps!  And 
now  let  's  set  down  over  in  the  corner  and  take  it 
easy.  It  ain't  hardly  five  o'clock  yet,  and  we  can  set 
here  comfortable,  gittin'  ready  for  dinner,  until  half- 
past  six,  anyway." 

Whereupon  the  four  seated  themselves  about  a 
tabouret  in  the  corner,  and  a  waiter  immediately 
bringing  them  four  fresh  glasses  from  the  bar,  Mellin 


196  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

began  to  understand  what  Mr.  Pedlow  meant  by 
"gittin'  ready  for  dinner."  The  burden  of  the  con- 
versation was  carried  almost  entirely  by  the  Hon- 
orable Chandler,  though  Cooley,  whose  boyish  face 
was  deeply  flushed,  now  and  then  managed  to  in- 
terrupt by  talking  louder  than  the  fat  man.  Mr. 
Sneyd  sat  silent. 

"Good  ole  Sneyd,"  said  Pedlow.  "He  never  talks, 
jest  saws  wood.  Only  Britisher  I  ever  liked.  Plays 
cards  like  a  goat." 

"He  played  a  mighty  good  game  on  the  steamer," 
said  Cooley  warmly. 

"I  don't  care  what  he  did  on  the  steamer,  he 
played  like  a  goat  the  only  time  /  ever  played  with 
him.  You  know  he  did.  I  reckon  you  was  theref'9 

"Should  say  I  was  there!  He  played  mighty 
well—" 

"Like  a  goat,"  reiterated  the  fat  man  firmly. 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  You  had  a  run  of  hands, 
that  was  all.  Nobody  can  go  against  the  kind  of 
luck  you  had  that  night;  and  you  took  it  away  from 
Sneyd  and  me  in  rolls.  But  we  '11  land  you  pretty 
soon,  won't  we,  ole  Sneydie?" 

"We  sh'll  have  a  shawt  at  him,  at  least,"  said 
the  Englishman. 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  197 

"Perhaps  lie  won't  want  us  to  try,"  young  Cooley 
pursued  derisively.  "Perhaps  he  thinks  /  play  like 
a  goat,  too!" 

Mr.  Pedlow  threw  back  his  head  and  roared. 
"Give  me  somep'n  easy!  You  don't  know  no  more 
how  to  play  a  hand  of  cards  than  a  giraffe  does, 
i  '11  throw  in  all  of  my  Blue  Gulch  gold-stock — and 
it 's  worth  eight  hundred  thousand  dollars  if  it 's  worth 
a  cent — I  '11  put  it  up  against  that  tin  automobile  of 
yours,  divide  chips  even  and  play  you  freeze-out 
for  it.  You  play  cards?  Go  learn  hop-scotch!" 

"You  wait!"  exclaimed  the  other  indignantly. 
"Next  time  we  play  we  '11  make  you  look  so  small 
you  '11  think  you  're  back  in  Congress !" 

At  this  Mr.  Pedlow  again  threw  back  his  head  and 
roared,  his  vast  body  so  shaken  with  mirth  that  the 
glass  he  held  in  his  hand  dropped  to  the  floor. 

"There,"  said  Cooley,  "that 's  the  second  Martini 
you  've  spilled.  You  're  two  behind  the  rest  of  us." 

"What  of  it?"  bellowed  the  fat  man.  "There  's 
plenty  comin',  ain't  there?  Four  more,  Tommy, 
and  bring  cigars.  Don't  take  a  cent  from  none  of 
these  Indians.  Gentlemen,  your  money  ain't  good 
here.  I  own  this  bar,  and  this  is  my  night." 
,  Mellin  had  begun  to  feel  at  ease,  and  after  a  time-— 


198  mS  OWN  PEOPLE 

as  they  continued  to  sit — he  realized  that  his  re^ 
pugnance  to  Mr.  Pedlow  was  wearing  off;  he  felt 
that  there  must  be  good  in  any  one  whom  Madame 
de  Vaurigard  liked.  She  had  spoken  of  Pedlow 
often  on  their  drives;  he  was  an  "eccentric,"  she  said, 
an  "original."  Why  not  accept  her  verdict?  Be- 
sides, Pedlow  was  a  man  of  distinction  and  force; 
he  had  been  in  Congress;  he  was  a  millionaire;  and, 
as  became  evident  in  the  course  of  a  long  recital 
of  the  principal  events  of  his  career,  most  of  the 
great  men  of  the  time  were  his  friends  and  proteges. 
1  'Well,  Mack,'  says  I  one  day  when  we  were  in 
the  House  together" — (thus  Mr.  Pedlow,  alluding 
to  the  late  President  McKinley) — "  'Mack,'  says  I, 
'if  you  'd  drop  that  double  standard  business' — he 
was  waverin'  toward  silver  along  then— -'I  don't 
know  but  I  might  git  the  boys  to  nominate  you  fer 
President.'  'I  '11  think  it  over,'  he  says— 'I  '11  think 
it  over.'  You  remember  me  tellin'  you  about  that 
at  the  time,  don't  you,  Sneyd,  when  you  was  in  the 
British  Legation  at  Washin'ton?" 

"Pahfictly,"  said  Mr.  Sneyd,  lighting  a  cigar  with 
great  calmness. 

"  'Yes,'  I  says,  'Mack,'  I  says,  'if  you  '11  drop  it, 
I  '11  turn  in  and  git  you  the  nomination.' ' 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  199 

"Did  lie  drop  it?"  asked  Mellin  innocently. 

Mr.  Pedlow  leaned  forward  and  struck  the  young 
man's  knee  a  resounding  blow  with  the  palm  of  his 
hand. 

"He  was  nominated,  was  n't  he?" 

"Time  to  dress,"  announced  Mr.  Sneyd,  looking 
at  his  watch. 

"One  more  round  first,"  insisted  Cooley,  with 
prompt  vehemence.  "Let  's  finish  with  our  first 
toast  again.  Can't  drink  that  too  often." 

This  proposition  was  received  with  warmest 
approval,  and  they  drank  standing. 

"Brightest  and  best!"  shouted  Mr.  Pedlow. 

"Queen!     What  she  is!"  exclaimed  Cooley. 

"Ma  belle  Marquise!"  whispered  Mellin  tenderly, 
as  the  rim  touched  his  lips. 

A  small,  keen-faced  man,  whose  steady  gray  eyes 
were  shielded  by  tortoise-rimmed  spectacles,  had 
come  into  the  room  and  now  stood  quietly  at  the 
bar,  sipping  a  glass  of  Vichy.  He  was  sharply 
observant  of  the  party  as  it  broke  up,  Pedlow  and 
Sneyd  preceding  the  younger  men  to  the  corridor, 
and,  as  the  latter  turned  to  follow,  the  stranger 
stepped  quickly  forward,  speaking  Cooley's  name. 

"What 's  the  matter?" 


£00  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

"Perhaps  you  don't  remember  me.  My  name  "s 
Cornish.  I  'm  a  newspaper  man,  a  correspondent." 
(He  named  a  New  York  paper.)  "I  'm  down  here 
to  get  a  Vatican  story.  I  knew  your  father  for  a 
number  of  years  before  his  death,  and  I  think  I  may 
claim  that  he  was  a  friend  of  mine." 

"That 's  good,"  said  the  youth  cordially.  "If  I 
had  n't  a  fine  start  already,  and  was  n't  in  a  hurry  to 
dress,  we  'd  have  another." 

"You  were  pointed  out  to  me  in  Paris,"  continued 
Cornish.  "I  found  where  you  were  staying  and 
called  on  you  the  next  day,  but  you  had  just  started 
for  the  Riviera."  He  hesitated,  glancing  at  Mellin. 
"Can  you  give  me  half  a  dozen  words  with  you  in 
private?" 

"You  '11  have  to  excuse  me,  I  'm  afraid.  I  've  only 
got  about  ten  minutes  to  dress.  See  you  to-morrow." 

"I  should  like  it  to  be  as  soon  as  possible,"  the 
journalist  said  seriously.  "It  isn  't  on  my  own 
account,  and  I 

"All  right.  You  come  to  my  room  at  ten  t'mor- 
row  morning?" 

"Well,  if  you  can't  possibly  make  it  to-night," 
said  Cornish  reluctantly.  "I  wish ' 

"Can't  possibly." 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  201 

And  Cooley,  taking  Mellin  by  the  arm,  walked 
rapidly  down  the  corridor.  "Funny  ole  corre- 
spondent," he  murmured.  "What  do  7  know  about 
the  Vatican?" 


CHAPTER  V 

LADY   MOUNT-RHYSWICKE 

THE  four  friends  of  Madame  de  Vaurigard 
were  borne  to  her  apartment  from  the 
Magnifique  in  Cooley's  big  car.  They 
sailed  triumphantly  down  and  up  the  hills  in  a  cool 
and  bracing  air,  under  a  moon  that  shone  as  brightly 
for  them  as  it  had  for  Csesar,  and  Mellin's  soul  was 
buoyant  within  him.  He  thought  of  Cranston  and 
laughed  aloud.  What  would  Cranston  say  if  it 
could  see  him  in  a  sixty -horse  touring-car,  with  two 
millionaires  and  an  English  diplomat,  brother  of  an 
earl,  and  all  on  the  way  to  dine  with  a  countess? 
If  Mary  Kramer  could  see  him !  .  Poor  Mary 

Kramer!  Poor  little  Mary  Kramer! 

A  man-servant  took  their  coats  in  Madame  de 
Vaurigard's  hall,  where  they  could  hear  through  the 
curtains  the  sound  of  one  or  two  voices  in  cheerful 
conversation. 

Sneyd  held  up  his  hand. 

"Listen,"  he  said.  "Shawly,  that  isn't  Lady 
Mount-Rhyswicke's  voice!  She  could  n't  be  in 

202 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  203 

Reom — always  a  Rhyswicke  Caws'l  for  Decembah. 
By  Jev,  it  is!" 

"Notliin'  of  the  kind,"  said  Pedlow.  "I  know 
Lady  Mount-Rhys wieke  as  well  as  I  know  you.  I 
started  her  father  in  business.  When  he  was  clerkin* 
behind  a  counter  in  Liverpool  I  give  him  the 
money  to  begin  on.  'Make  good,'  says  I,  'that 's  all. 
Make  good!'  And  he  done  it,  too.  Educated  his 
daughter  fit  fer  a  princess,  married  her  to  Mount- 
Rhys  wicke,  and  when  he  died  left  her  ten  million 
dollars  if  he  left  her  a  cent!  I  know  Madge  Mount- 
Rhys  wicke  and  that  ain't  her  voice." 

A  peal  of  silvery  laughter  rang  from  the  other  side 
of  the  curtain. 

"They  've  heard  you,"  said  Cooley. 

"An'  who  could  help  it?"  Madame  de  Vaurigard 
herself  threw  back  the  curtains.  "Who  could  help 
hear  our  great,  dear,  ole  lion?  How  he  roar'!" 

She  wore  a  white  velvet  "princesse"  gown  of  a 
fashion  which  was  a  shade  less  than  what  is  called 
"daring,"  with  a  rope  of  pearls  falling  from  her 
neck  and  a  diamond  star  in  her  dark  hair.  Standing 
with  one  arm  uplifted  to  the  curtains,  and  with  the 
mellow  glow  of  candles  and  firelight  behind  her,  she 
was  so  lovely  that  both  Mellm  and  Cooley  stood 


204  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

breathlessly  still  until  she  changed  her  attitude. 
This  she  did  only  to  move  toward  them,  extending  a 
hand  to  each,  letting  Cooley  seize  the  right  and 
Mellin  the  left. 

Each  of  them  was  pleased  with  what  he  got,  par- 
ticularly Mellin.  "The  left  is  nearer  the  heart," 
he  thought. 

She  led  them  through  the  curtains,  not  with- 
drawing her  hands  until  they  entered  the  salon. 
She  might  have  led  them  out  of  her  fifth-story 
window  in  that  fashion,  had  she  chosen. 

"My  two  wicked  boys!"  she  laughed  tenderly. 

This  also  pleased  both  of  them,  though  each 
would  have  preferred  to  be  her  only  wicked  boy — 
a  preference  which,  perhaps,  had  something  to  do 
with  the  latter  events  of  the  evening. 

"Aha!  I  know  you  both;  before  twenty  minute' 
you  will  be  makin'  love  to  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke. 
BehoF  those  two  already!  An'  they  are  only  ole 
frien's." 

She  pointed  to  Pedlow  and  Sneyd.  The  fat  man 
was  shouting  at  a  woman  in  pink  satin,  who  lounged, 
half-reclining,  among  a  pile  of  cushions  upon  a 
divan  near  the  fire;  Sneyd  gallantly  bending  over  her 
to  kiss  her  hand. 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  205 

"It  is  a  very  little  dinner,  you  see,"  continued  the 
hostess,  "only  seven,  but  we  shall  be  seven  time* 
happier." 

The  seventh  person  proved  to  be  the  Italian, 
Corni,  who  had  surrendered  his  seat  in  Madame 
de  Vaurigard's  victoria  to  Mellin  on  the  Pincio. 
He  presently  made  his  appearance  followed  by  a 
waiter  bearing  a  tray  of  glasses  filled  with  a  pink 
liquid,  while  the  Countess  led  her  two  wicked  boys 
across  the  room  to  present  them  to  Lady  Mount- 
Rhyswicke.  Already  Mellin  was  forming  sentences 
for  his  next  letter  to  the  Cranston  Telegraph: 
"Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  said  to  me  the  other 
evening,  while  discussing  the  foreign  policy  of 
Great  Britain,  in  Comtesse  de  Vaurigard's  salon  .  .  ." 
"An  English  peeress  of  pronounced  literary  acumen 
has  been  giving  me  rather  confidentially  her  opinion 
of  our  American  poets  .  .  ." 

The  inspiration  of  these  promising  fragments  was 
a  large,  weary-looking  person,  with  no  lack  of 
powdered  shoulder  above  her  pink  bodice  and  a 
profusion  of  "undulated"  hair  of  so  decided  a  blond 
that  it  might  have  been  suspected  that  the  decision 
had  lain  with  the  lady  herself. 

"Howjdo,"    she    said    languidly,    when    Mellin \s 


206  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

name  was  pronounced  to  her.  "There  's  a  man 
behind  you  tryin'  to  give  you  something  to  drink." 

"Who  was  it  said  these  were  Martinis?"  snorted 
Pedlow.  "They  *ve  got  perfumery  in  'em." 

"Ah,  what  a  bad  lion  it  is!"  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard  lifted  both  hands  in  mock  horror.  "Roar,  lion, 
roar!"  she  cried.  "An'  think  of  the  emotion  of  our 
good  Cavaliere  Corni,  who  have  come  an  hour  early 
jus*  to  make  them  for  us!  I  ask  Monsieur  Mellin 
if  it  Ls  not  good." 

"And  I  '11  leave  it  to  Cooley,"  said  Pedlow.  "If 
he  can  drink  all  of  his  I  '11  eat  crow!" 

Thus  challenged,  the  two  young  men  smilingly  ac- 
cepted glasses  from  the  waiter,  and  lifted  them  on  high. 

"Same  toast,"  said  Cooley.    "Queen!" 

"A  Za  belle  Marquise!" 

Gallantly  they  drained  the  glasses  at  a  gulp,  and 
Madame  de  Vaurigard  clapped  her  hands. 

"Bravo!"  she  cried.     "You  see?     Corni  and  I5 


we  win." 


"Look  at  their  faces!"  said  Mr.  Pedlow,  tactlessly 
drawing  attention  to  what  was,  for  the  moment,  an 
undeniably  painful  sight.  "Don't  tell  me  an  Italian 
knows  how  to  make  a  good  Martini!" 

Mellin  profoundly  agreed,  but,  as  he  joined  the 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  207 

.small  procession  to  the  Countess'  dinner-table,  he 
was  certain  that  an  Italian  at  least  knew  how  to 
make  a  strong  one. 

The  light  in  the  dining-room  was  provided  by  six 
heavily-shaded  candles  on  the  table;  the  latter 
decorated  with  delicate  lines  of  orchids.  The  chairs 
were  large  and  comfortable,  covered  with  tapestry; 
the  glass  was  old  Venetian,  and  the  servants,  moving 
like  useful  ghosts  in  the  shaddw  outside  the  circle 
of  mellow  light,  were  particularly  efficient  in  the 
matter  of  keeping  the  wine-glasses  full.  Madame 
de  Vaurigard  had  put  Pedlow  on  her  right,  Cooley 
on  her  left,  with  Mellin  directly  opposite  her,  next 
to  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke.  Mellin  was  pleased, 
because  he  thought  he  would  have  the  Countess's 
face  toward  him.  Anything  would  have  pleased 
him  just  then. 

"This  is  the  kind  of  table  everybody  ought  to  have," 
he  observed  to  the  party  in  general,  as  he  finished  his 
first  glass  of  champagne.  "I  'm  going  to  have  it  like 
this  at  my  place  hi  the  States — if  I  ever  decide  to 
go  back.  I  '11  have  six  separate  candlesticks  like  this, 
not  a  candelabrum,  and  that  will  be  the  only  light  in 
the  room.  And  I  '11  never  have  anything  but  orchids 
on  my  table " 


208  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

'Tor  my  part,"  Lady  Mount-Rhys wicke  inter- 
rupted in  the  loud,  tired  monotone  which  seemed  to 
be  her  only  manner  of  speaking,  "I  like  more  light. 
I  like  all  the  light  that  's  goin'." 

"If  Lady  Mount-Rhys  wicke  sat  at  my  table," 
returned  Mellin  dashingly,  "I  should  wish  all  the 
light  in  the  world  to  shine  upon  so  happy  an  event." 

"Hear  the  man !"  she  drawled.  "He  's  proposin' 
to  me.  Thinks  I  'm  a  widow." 

There  was  a  chorus  of  laughter,  over  which  rose 
the  bellow  of  Mr.  Pedlow. 

'  'He  *s  game!'  she  says — and  ain't  he?" 

Across  the  table  Madame  de  Vaurigard's  eyes 
met  Mellin's  with  a  mocking  intelligence  so  com- 
plete that  he  caught  her  message  without  need  of  the 
words  she  noiselessly  formed  with  her  lips:  "I  toF 
you  you  would  be  makin'  love  to  her!" 

He  laughed  joyously  in  answer.  Why  should  n't 
he  flirt  with  Lady  Mount-Rhys  wicke?  He  was 
thoroughly  happy;  his  Helene,  his  belle  Marquise, 
sat  across  the  table  from  him  sending  messages  to 
him  with  her  eyes.  He  adored  her,  but  he  liked 
Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke — he  liked  everybody  and 
everything  in  the  world.  He  liked  Pedlow  parti- 
cularly, and  it  no  longer  troubled  him  that  the  fat 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  209 

man  should  be  a  friend  of  Madame  de  Vaurigard. 
Pedlow  was  a  "character"  and  a  wit  as  well.  Mellin 
laughed  heartily  at  everything  the  Honorable  Chan- 
dler Pedlow  said. 

"This  is  life,"  remarked  the  young  man  to  his 
/air  neighbor. 

"What  is?  Sittin'  round  a  table,  eatin'  and 
drinkin'?" 

"Ah,  lovely  skeptic !"  She  looked  at  him  strangely, 
but  he  continued  with  growing  enthusiasm:  "I  mean 
to  sit  at  such  a  table  as  this,  with  such  a  chef,  with 
such  wines — to  know  one  crowded  hour  like  this  is 
to  live!  Not  a  thing  is  missing;  all  this  swagger 
furniture,  the  rich  atmosphere  of  smartness  about 
the  whole  place;  best  of  all,  the  company.  It 's  a 
great  thing  to  have  the  real  people  around  you,  the 
right  sort,  you  know,  socially;  people  you  'd  ask  to 
your  own  table  at  home.  There  are  only  seven, 
but  every  one  distingue,  every  one " 

She  leaned  both  elbows  on  the  table  with  her 
hands  palm  to  palm,  and,  resting  her  cheek  against 
the  back  of  her  left  hand,  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"And  you — are  you  distinguished,  too?" 

"Oh,  I  would  n't  be  much  known  over  here"  he 
said  modestly. 


210  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

"Do  you  write  poetry?" 

"Oil,  not  professionally,  though  it  is  published. 
I  suppose" — he  sipped  his  champagne  with  his  head 
a  little  to  one  side  as  though  judging  its  quality— 
"I  suppose  I  Ve  been  more  or  less  a  dilettante.    I  've 
knocked  about  the  world  a  good  bit." 

"H£l£ne  says  you  're  one  of  these  leisure  Ameri- 
can billionaires  like  Mi-.  Cooley  there,"  she  said  in 
her  tired  voice. 

"Oh,  none  of  us  are  really  quite  billionaires." 
He  laughed  deprecatingly. 

"No,  I  suppose  not — not  really.  Go  on  and  tell 
me  some  more  about  life  and  this  distinguished 
company." 

"Hey,  folks!"  Mr.  Pedlow's  roar  broke  in  upon 
this  dialogue.  "You  two  are  gittin'  mighty  thick 
over  there.  We  're  drinking  a  toast,  and  you  '11  have 
to  break  away  long  enough  to  join  in." 

"Queen!    That  's  what  she  is!"  shouted  Cooley. 

Mellin  lifted  his  glass  with  the  others  and  drank 
to  Madame  de  Vaurigard,  but  the  woman  at  his  side 
did  not  change  her  attitude  and  continued  to  sit 
with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  cheek  on  the  back 
of  her  hand,  watching  liim  thoughtfully. 


CHAPTER  VI 

RAKE'S  PROGRESS 

MANY  toasts  were  uproariously  honored, 
the  health  of  each  member  of  the  party 
in  turn,  then  the  country  of  each: 
France  and  England  first,  out  of  courtesy  to  the 
ladies,  Italy  next,  since  this  beautiful  and  extraor- 
dinary meeting  of  distinguished  people  (as  Mellin 
remarked  in  a  short  speech  he  felt  called  upon  to 
make)  took  place  in  that  wonderful  land,  then  the 
United  States,  This  last  toast  the  gentlemen  felt 
it  necessary  to  honor  by  standing  in  their  chairs. 
[Song:  The  Star-spangled  Banner — without  words — 
by  Mr.  Cooky  and  chorus.] 

When  the  cigars  were  brought,  the  ladies  graciously 
remained,  adding  tiny  spirals  of  smoke  from  their 
cigarettes  to  the  layers  of  blue  haze  which  soon 
overhung  the  table.  Through  this  haze,  in  the 
gentle  light  (which  seemed  to  grow  softer  and  softer) 
Mellin  saw  the  face  of  Helene  de  Vaurigard,  luminous 
as  an  angel's.  She  was  an  angel — and  the  others 

211 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

were  gods.  What  could  be  more  appropriate  in 
Rome?  Lady  Mount-Rhys wicke  was  Juno,  but 
more  beautiful.  For  himself,  he  felt  like  a  god  too, 
Olympic  in  serenity. 

He  longed  for  mysterious  dangers.  How  debonair 
he  would  stroll  among  them!  He  wished  to  explore 
the  unknown;  felt  the  need  of  a  splendid  adventure, 
and  had  a  happy  premonition  that  one  was  coming 
nearer  and  nearer.  He  favored  himself  with  a  hope- 
ful vision  of  the  apartment  on  fire,  Robert  Russ 
Mellin  smiling  negligently  among  the  flames  and 
Madame  de  Vaurigard  kneeling  before  him  in  adora- 
tion. Immersed  in  delight,  he  puffed  his  cigar  and 
let  his  eyes  rest  dreamily  upon  the  face  of  Helene. 
He  was  quite  undisturbed  by  an  argument,  more  a 
commotion  than  a  debate,  between  Mr.  Pedlow  and 
young  Cooley.  It  ended  by  their  rising,  the  latter 
overturning  a  chair  in  his  haste. 

"I  don't  know  the  rudiments,  don't  I?"  cried  the 
boy.  "You  wait!  Ole  Sneydie  and  I  '11  trim  you 
down!  Corni  says  he  '11  play,  too.  Come  on, 
Mellin." 

"I  won't  go  unless  Helene  goes,"  said  Mellin. 
"What  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  get  there?" 

"Alas,  my  frien'!"  exclaimed  Madame  de  Vauri- 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  213 

gard,  rising,  "is  it  not  what  I  toP  you?  Always  you 
are  never  content  wizout  your  play.  You  come  to 
dinner  an'  when  it  is  finish'  you  play,  play,  play!" 

"Play?9'  He  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Bravo!  That's 
the  very  thing  I  've  been  wanting  to  do.  I  knew 
there  was  something  I  wanted  to  do,  but  I  could  n't 
think  what  it  was." 

Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  followed  the  others  into 
the  salon,  but  Madame  de  Vaurigard  waited  just 
inside  the  doorway  for  Mellin. 

"High  play!"  he  cried.  "We  must  play  high! 
I  won't  play  any  other  way. — I  want  to  play  high!" 

"Ah,  wicked  one!    What  did  I  tell  you?" 

He  caught  her  hand.  "And  you  must  play  too, 
Helene." 

"No,  no,"  she  laughed  breathlessly. 

"Then  you  '11  watch.  Promise  you  '11  watch  me. 
I  won't  let  you  go  till  you  promise  to  watch  me." 

"I  shall  adore  it,  my  frien' !" 

"Mellin,"  called  Cooley  from  the  other  room. 
"You  comin'  or  not?" 

"Can't  you  see  me?"  answered  Mellin  hilariously, 
entering  with  Madame  de  Vaurigard,  who  was  rosy 
with  laughter.  "Peculiar  thing  to  look  at  a  man 
and  not  see  him." 


214  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

Candles  were  lit  in  many  sconces  on  the  walls,  and 
the  card-table  had  been  pushed  to  the  centre  of  the 
room,  little  towers  of  blue,  white  and  scarlet  counters 
arranged  upon  it  in  orderly  rows  like  miniature 
castles. 

"Now,  then,"  demanded  Cooley,  "are  the  ladies 
goin'  to  play?" 

"Never!"  cried  Madame  de  Vaurigard. 

"AH  right,"  said  the  youth  cheerfully;  "you  can 
look  on.  Come  and  sit  by  me  for  a  mascot." 

"You  '11  need  a  mascot,  my  boy!"  shouted  Ped- 
low.  "That  's  right,  though;  take  her." 

He  pushed  a  chair  close  to  that  in  which  Cooley 
had  already  seated  himself,  and  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard dropped  into  it,  laughing.  "Mellin,  you  set 
there,"  he  continued,  pushing  the  young  man  into 
a  seat  opposite  Cooley.  "We  '11  give  both  you  young 
fellers  a  mascot."  He  turned  to  Lady  Mount- 
Rhyswicke,  who  had  gone  to  the  settee  by  the  fire. 
"Madge,  you  come  and  set  by  Mellin,"  he  com- 
manded jovially.  "Maybe  he  '11  forget  you  ain't 
a  widow  again." 

"I  don't  believe  I  care  much  about  bein'  any- 
body's mascot  to-night,"  she  answered.  There 
was  a  hint  of  anger  in  her  tired  monotone. 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  215 

"What?"  He  turned  from  the  table  and  walked 
over  to  the  fireplace.  "I  reckon  I  didn't  imder- 
stand  you,"  he  said  quietly,  almost  gently.  "You 
better  come,  had  n't  you?" 

She  met  his  inscrutable  little  eyes  steadily.  A 
faint  redness  slowly  revealed  itself  on  her  pow- 
dered cheeks;  then  she  followed  him  beck  to  the 
table  and  took  the  place  he  had  assigned  to  her 
at  Mellin's  elbow. 

"I  '11  bank,"  said  Pedlow,  taking  a  chair  between 
Cooley  and  the  Italian,  "unless  somebody  wants 
to  take  it  off  my  hands.  Now,  what  are  we 
playing?" 

"Pokah;"  responded  Sneyd  with  mild  sarcasm. 

"Bravo!"    cried    Mellin.     "That    's    my    game. 


This  was  so  far  true;  it  was  the  only  game  upon 
which  he  had  ever  ventured  money;  he  had  played 
several  times  when  the  wagers  were  allowed  to 
reach  a  limit  of  twenty-five  cents. 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  I  reckon,"  said  Ped- 
low. "I  mean  what  we  are  playin*  fer?" 

"Twenty-five  franc  limit,"  responded  Cooley 
authoritatively.  "Double  for  jacks.  Play  two 
hours  and  settle  when  we  quit." 


216  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

Mellin  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "You  call 
that  high?"  he  asked,  with  a  sniff  of  contempt. 
"Why  not  double  it?" 

The  fat  man  hammered  the  table  with  his  fist 
delightedly.  "  'He  's  game/  she  says.  'He  's  the 
gamest  little  Indian  ever  come  down  the  big  road!' 
she  says.  Was  she  right?  What?  Maybe  she 
was  n't!  Wre  '11  double  it  before  very  long,  my 
boy;  this  '11  do  to  start  on.  There."  He  distributed 
some  of  the  small  towers  of  ivory  counters  and 
made  a  memorandum  in  a  notebook.  "There 's 
four  hundred  apiece." 

"That  all?"  inquired  Mellin,  whereupon  Mr. 
Pedlow  uproariously  repeated  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard's  alleged  tribute. 

As  the  game  began,  the  intelligent-looking  maid 
appeared  from  the  dining-room,  bearing  bottles  of 
whiskey  and  soda,  and  these  she  deposited  upon 
small  tables  at  the  convenience  of  the  players, 
so  that  at  the  conclusion  of  the  first  encounter 
in  the  gentle  tournament  there  was  material  for 
a  toast  to  the  gallant  who  had  won  it. 

"Here 's  to  the  gamest  Indian  of  us  all,"  proposed 
the  fat  man.  "Did  you  notice  him  call  me  with 
a  pair  of  tens?  And  me  queen-high!" 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  217 

Mellin  drained  a  deep  glass  in  honor  of  himself. 
"On  my  soul,  Chan'  Pedlow,  I  think  you  re  the 
bes'  fellow  in  the  whole  world,"  he  said  grate- 
fully. "Only  trouble  with  you — you  don't  want 
to  play  high  enough." 

He  won  again  and  again,  adding  other  towers 
of  counters  to  his  original  allotment,  so  that  he 
had  the  semblance  of  a  tiny  castle.  When  the 
cards  had  been  dealt  for  the  fifth  time  he  felt  the 
light  contact  of  a  slipper  touching  his  foot  under 
the  table. 

That  slipper,  he  decided  (from  the  nature  of 
things)  could  belong  to  none  other  than  his  Helene, 
and  even  as  he  came  to  this  conclusion  the  slight 
pressure  against  his  foot  was  gently  but  distinctly 
increased  thrice.  He  pressed  the  slipper  in  return 
with  his  shoe,  at  the  same  time  giving  Madame 
dr  Vaurigard  a  look  of  grateful  surprise  and  ten- 
derness, which  threw  her  into  a  confusion  so  evi- 
dently genuine  that  for  an  unworthy  moment 
he  had  a  jealous  suspicion  she  had  meant  the  little 
caress  for  some  other. 

It  was  a  disagreeable  thought,  and,  in  the  hope 
of  banishing  it,  he  refilled  his  glass;  but  his  mood 
had  begun  to  change.  It  seemed  to  him  that  Helene 


218  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

was  watching  Cooley  a  great  deal  too  devotedly. 
Why  had  she  consented  to  sit  by  Cooley,  when 
she  had  promised  to  watch  Robert  Russ  Mellin? 
He  observed  the  pair  stealthily. 

Cooley  consulted  her  in  laughing  whispers  upon 
every  discard,  upon  every  bet.  Now  and  then, 
in  their  whisperings,  Cooley 's  hair  touched  hers; 
sometimes  she  laid  her  hand  on  his  the  more  con- 
veniently to  look  at  his  cards.  Mellin  began  to 
be  enraged.  Did  she  think  that  puling  milksop 
had  as  much  as  a  shadow  of  the  daring,  the  devilry, 
the  carelessness  of  consequences  which  lay  within 
Robert  Russ  Mellin?  "Consequences?"  What 
were  they?  There  were  no  such  things!  She  would 
not  look  at  him — well,  he  would  make  her!  Thence- 
forward he  raised  every  bet  by  another  to  the 
extent  of  the  limit  agreed  upon. 

Mr.  Cooley  was  thoroughly  happy.  He  did  not 
resemble  Ulysses;  he  would  never  have  had  himself 
bound  to  the  mast;  and  there  were  already  sounds 
of  unearthly  sweetness  in  his  ears.  His  conferences 
with  his  lovely  hostess  easily  consoled  him  for  his 
losses.  In  addition,  he  was  triumphing  over  the 
boaster,  for  Mr.  Pedlow,  with  a  very  ill  grace  and 
swearing  (not  under  his  breath),  was  losing  too 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  319 

The  Countess,  reiterating  for  the  hundredth  time  that 
Cooley  was  a  "wicked  one,"  sweetly  constituted 
herself  his  cup-bearer;  kept  his  glass  full  and  brought 
him  fresh  cigars. 

Mellm  dealt  her  furious  glances,  and  filled  his 
own  glass,  for  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  plainly  had 
no  conception  of  herself  in  the  role  of  a  Hebe.  The 
hospitable  Pedlow,  observing  this  neglect,  was 
moved  to  chide  her. 

"Look  at  them  two  cooing  doves  over  there,"  he 
said  reproachfully,  a  jerk  of  his  bulbous  thumb 
indicating  Madame  de  Vaurigard  and  her  young 
protege.  "Madge,  can't  you  do  nothin'  fer  our 
friend  the  Indian?  Can't  you  even  help  him  to 
sody?" 

"Oh,  perhaps,"  she  answered  with  the  slightest 
flash  from  her  tired  eyes.  Then  she  nonchalantly 
lifted  Mellin's  replenished  glass  from  the  table  and 
drained  it.  This  amused  Cooley. 

"I  like  that!"  he  chuckled.  "That 's  one  way  of 
helpin*  a  feller!  Helene,  can  you  do  any  better 
than  that?" 

"Ah,  this  dear,  droll  Cooley!" 

The  tantalizing  witch  lifted  the  youth's  glass 
to  his  lips  and  let  him  drink,  as  a  mother 


220  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

helps  a  thirsty  child.  "Bebe!"  she  laughed  en- 
dearingly. 

As  the  lovely  Helene  pronounced  that  word,  Lady 
Mount-Rhyswicke  was  leaning  forward  to  replace 
Mellia's  empty  glass  upon  the  table. 

"I  don't  care  whether  you  're  a  widow  or  not!" 
he  shouted  furiously.  And  he  resoundingly  kissed 
her  massive  shoulder. 

There  was  a  wild  shout  of  laughter;  even  the 
imperturbable  Sneyd  (who  had  continued  to  win 
steadily)  wiped  tears  from  his  eyes,  and  Madame  de 
Vaurigard  gave  way  to  intermittent  hysteria  through- 
out the  ensuing  half -hour. 

For  a  time  Mellin  sat  grimly  observing  this  in- 
explicable merriment  with  a  cold  smile. 

"Laugh  on!"  he  commanded  with  bitter  satire, 
some  ten  minutes  after  play  had  been  resumed — • 
and  was  instantly  obeyed. 

Whereupon  his  mood  underwent  another  change, 
and  he  became  convinced  that  the  world  was  a 
warm  and  kindly  place,  where  it  was  good  to  live. 
He  forgot  that  he  was  jealous  of  Cooley  and 
angry  with  the  Countess;  he  liked  every- 
body again,  especially  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke. 
"Won't  you  sit  farther  forward?"  he  begged  her 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

earnestly;  "so  that  I  can  see  your  beautiful  golden 
hair?" 

He  heard  but  dimly  the  spasmodic  uproar  that 
followed.  "Laugh  on!"  he  repeated  with  a  swoop 
of  his  arm.  "I  don't  care!  Don't  you  care  either, 
Mrs.  Mount-Rhyswicke.  Please  sit  where  I  can  see 
your  beautiful  golden  hair.  Don't  be  afraid  I  '11  kiss 
you  again.  I  would  n't  do  it  for  the  whole  world. 
You  're  one  of  the  noblest  women  I  ever  knew.  I  feel 
that  's  true.  I  don't  know  how  I  know  it,  but  I 
know  it.  Let  'em  laugh!" 

After  this  everything  grew  more  and  more  hazy 
to  him.  For  a  time  there  was,  in  the  centre  of  the 
haze,  a  nimbus  of  light  which  revealed  his  cards  to 
him  and  the  towers  of  chips  which  he  constantly 
called  for  and  which  as  constantly  disappeared — • 
like  the  towers  of  a  castle  in  Spain.  Then  the  haze 
thickened,  and  the  one  thing  clear  to  him  was  a 
phrase  from  an  old-time  novel  he  had  read  long  ago: 

"Debt  of  honor." 

The  three  words  appeared  to  be  written  in  flames 
against  a  background  of  dense  fog.  A  debt  of  honor 
was  a  promissory  note  which  had  to  be  paid  on 
Monday,  and  the  appeal  to  the  obdurate  grand- 
5ather — a  peer  of  England,  the  Earl  of  Mount- 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

Rhyswicke,  in  fact — was  made  at  midnight,  Sunday. 
The  fog  grew  still  denser,  lifted  for  a  moment  while 
he  wrote  his  name  many  times  on  slips  of  blue  paper; 
closed  down  once  more,  and  again  lifted — out-of- 
doors  this  time — to  show  him  a  lunatic  ballet  of 
moons  dancing  streakily  upon  the  horizon. 

He  heard  himself  say  quite  clearly,  "All  right,  old 
man,  thank  you;  but  don't  bother  about  me,"  to  a 
pallid  but  humorous  Cooley  in  evening  clothes; 
the  fog  thickened;  oblivion  closed  upon  him  for  a 
seeming  second.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE   NEXT  MORNING 

SUDDENLY  he  sat  up  in  bed  in  his  room 
at  the  Magnifique,  gazing  upon  a  disconsolate 
Cooley  in  gray  tweeds  who  sat  heaped  in  a 
chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed  with  his  head  in  his 
hands. 

Mellin's  first  sensation  was  of  utter  mystification; 
his  second  was  more  corporeal:  the  consciousness- 
of  physical  misery,  of  consuming  fever,  of  aches  that 
ran  over  his  whole  body,  converging  to  a  dreadful 
climax  in  his  head,  of  a  throat  so  immoderately 
parched  it  seemed  to  crackle,  and  of  a  thirst  so  avid 
it  was  a  passion.  His  eye  fell  upon  a  carafe  of  water 
on  a  chair  at  his  bedside;  he  seized  upon  it  with  a 
shaking  hand  and  drpnk  half  its  contents  before  he 
set  it  down.  The  action  attracted  his  companion's 
attention  and  he  looked  up,  showing  a  pale  and 
haggard  countenance. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  inquired  Cooley  with  a  wan 

smile. 

223 


224  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

MeUin's  head  dropped  back  upon  the  pillow  and 
he  made  one  or  two  painful  efforts  to  speak  before 
he  succeeded  in  finding  a  ghastly  semblance  of  his 
voice. 

"I  thought  I  was  at  Madame  de  Vaurigard's." 

"You  were,"  said  the  other,  adding  grimly: 
"We  both  were." 

"But  that  was  only  a  minute  ago." 

"It  was  six  hours  ago.  It 's  goin'  on  ten  o'clock 
in  the  morning." 

"I  don't  understand  how  that  can  be.  How  did 
I  get  here?" 

"I  brought  you.    I  was  pretty  bad,  but  you— 
I  never  saw  anything  like  you!    From  the  time  you 
kissed  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke " 

Mellin  sat  bolt  upright  in  bed,  staring  wildly. 
He  began  to  tremble  violently. 

"Don't  you  remember  that?"  asked  Cooley. 

Suddenly  he  did.  The  memory  of  it  came  with 
inexorable  clarity;  he  crossed  forearms  over  his 
horror-stricken  face  and  fell  back  upon  the  pillow. 

"Oh,"  he  gasped.  "Un-speakable!  Unspeak- 
able!" 

"Lord!  Don't  worry  about  that!  I  don't  think 
she  minded." 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  225 

"It  's  the  thought  of  Madame  de  Vaurigard — it 
kills  me!  The  horror  of  it — that  I  should  do  such  a 
thing  in  her  house!  She  '11  never  speak  to  me  again, 
she  ought  n't  to;  she  ought  to  send  her  groom  to  beat 
me!  You  can't  think  what  I  've  lost " 

"Can't  I?"  Mr.  Cooley  rose  from  his  chair  and 
began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  chamber.  "I  can 
guess  to  within  a  thousand  francs  of  what  I  9ve  lost ! 
I  had  to  get  the  hotel  to  cash  a  check  on  New  York 
for  me  this  morning.  I  've  a  habit  of  carrying  all  my 
money  in  bills,  and  a  fool  trick,  too.  Well,  I  'in  cured 
of  it!" 

"Oh,  if  it  were  only  a  little  money  and  nothing 
else  that  I  'd  lost!  The  money  means  nothing." 
Mellin  choked. 

"I  suppose  you  're  pretty  well  fixed.  Well,  so  am 
I,"  Cooley  shook  his  head,  "but  money  certainly 
means  something  to  me!" 

"It  would  n't  if  you  'd  thrown  away  the  most 
precious  friendship  of  your  life." 

"See  here,"  said  Cooley,  halting  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  and  looking  at  his  stricken  companion 
from  beneath  frowning  brows,  "I  guess  I  can  sec 
how  it  is  with  you,  and  I  '11  tell  you  frankly  it 's 
been  the  same  with  me.  I  never  met  such  a  fas- 


226  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

cinatin'  woman  in  my  life:  she  throws  a  reg'ler 
ole-fashioned  spell  over  you!  Now  I  hate  to  say 
it,  but  I  can't  help  it,  because  it  plain  hits  me 
in  the  face  every  time  I  think  of  it;  the  truth  is 
—well,  sir,  I  'm  afraid  you  and  me  have  had  little 
red  soldier-coats  and  caps  put  on  us  and  strings 
tied  to  our  belts  while  we  turned  somersets  for 
the  children." 

"I  don't  understand.  I  don't  know  what  you  're 
talking  about." 

"No?  It  seems  to  get  more  and  more  simple 
to  me.  I  've  been  thinking  it  all  over  and  over 
again.  I  can't  help  it!  See  here:  I  met  Sneyd 
on  the  steamer,  without  any  introduction.  He 
sort  of  warmed  into  the  game  in  the  smoking-room, 
and  he  won  straight  along  the  trip.  He  called  on 
me  in  London  and  took  me  to  meet  the  Countess 
at  her  hotel.  We  three  went  to  the  theatre  and 
hmch  and  so  forth  a  few  times;  and  when  I  left 
for  Paris  she  turned  up  on  the  way:  that's  when 
you  met  her.  Couple  of  days  later,  Sneyd  came 
over,  and  he  and  the  Countess  introduced  me 
to  dear  ole  friend  Pedlow.  So  you  see,  I  don't 
rightly  even  know  who  any  of  'em  really  are;  just 
took  'em  for  granted,  as  it  were.  We  had  lots 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  227 

of  fun,  I  admit  that,  lionkin'  about  in  niy  car. 
We  only  played  cards  once,  and  that  was  in  her 
apartment  the  last  night  before  I  left  Paris,  but 
that  one  time  Pedlow  won  fifteen  thousand  francs 
from  me.  When  I  told  them  my  plans,  how  I  was 
goin'  to  motor  down  to  Rome,  she  said  she  would 
be  in  Rome — and,  I  tell  you,  I  was  happy  as  a 
poodle-pup  about  it.  Sneyd  said  he  might  be  in 
Rome  along  about  then,  and  open-hearted  ole 
Pedlow  said  not  to  be  surprised  if  he  turned  up, 
too.  Well,  he  did,  almost  to  the  minute,  and  in 
the  meantime  she  'd  got  you  hooked  on,  fine  and 
tight." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  Mellin  lifted  him- 
self painfully  on  an  elbow.  "I  don't  know  what 
you  're  getting  at,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  're 
speaking  disrespectfully  of  an  angel  that  I  *ve  in- 
sulted, and  I— 

"Now  see  here,  Mellin,  I  '11  tell  you  something." 
The  boy's  white  face  showed  sudden  color  and 
there  was  a  catch  in  his  voice.  "I  was — I  've  been 
mighty  near  in  love  with  that  woman!  But  I've 
had  a  kind  of  a  shock;  I  've  got  my  common-sense 
back,  and  I  'm  not,  any  more.  I  don't  know  exactly 
how  much  money  I  bad,  but  it  was  between  thirty- 


208  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

five  and  thirty-eight  thousand  francs,  aad  Sneyd 
won  it  all  after  we  took  off  the  limit — over  seven 
thousand  dollars — at  her  table  last  night.  Putting 
two  and  two  together,  honestly  it  looks  bad.  It 
looks  mighty  bad!  Now,  I  'm  pretty  well  fixed, 
and  yesterday  I  didn't  care  whether  school  kept 
or  not,  but  seven  thousand  dollars  is  real  money 
to  anybody!  My  old  man  worked  pfetty  hard 
for  his  first  seven  thousand,  I  guess,  and" — he 
gulped — "he  9d  think  a  lot  of  me  for  lettin'  go  of 
it  the  way  I  did  last  night,  wouldn't  he?  You 
never  see  things  like  this  till  the  next  morning! 
And  you  remember  that  other  woman  sat  where 
she  could  see  every  hand  you  drew,  and  the 
Countess " 

"Stop!"  Mellin  flung  one  arm  up  violently, 
striking  the  bedboard  with  his  knuckles.  "I 
won't  hear  a  syllable  against  Madame  de  Vaurigard !" 

Young  Cooley  regarded  him  steadily  for  a  mo- 
ment. "Have  you  remembered  yet,"  he  said 
slowly,  "how  much  you  lost  last  night?" 

"I  only  remember  that  I  behaved  like  an  un- 
speakable boor  in  the  presence  of  the  divinest 
creature  that  ever— 

Cooley  disregarded  the  outburst,  and  said: 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

"Wheo  we  settled,  you  had  a  pad  of  express 
company  checks  worth  six  hundred  dollars.  You 
signed  all  of  'em  and  turned  'em  over  to  Sneyd 
with  three  one-hundred-lire  bills,  which  was  all 
the  cash  you  had  with  you.  Then  you  gave 
him  your  note  for  twelve  thousand  francs  to 
be  paid  within  three  days.  You  made  a  great 
deal  of  fuss  about  its  being  a  'debt  of  honor/  ' 
He  paused.  "You  had  n't  remembered  that,  had 
you?" 

Mellin  had  closed  his  eyes.  He  lay  quite  still 
and  made  no  answer. 

"No,  I  '11  bet  you  had  n't,"  said  Cooley,  correctly 
deducing  the  fact.  "You  're  well  off,  or  you  would  n't 
be  at  this  hotel,  and,  for  all  I  know,  you  may 
be  fixed  so  you  won't  mind  your  loss  as  much  as 
I  do  mine;  but  it  ought  to  make  you  kind  of  char- 
itable toward  my  suspicions  of  Madame  de  Vauri- 
gard's  friends." 

The  six  hundred  dollars  in  express  company 
checks  and  the  three  hundred-lire  bills  were  all 
the  money  tke  unhappy  Mellin  had  in  the  world, 
and  until  he  could  return  to  Cranston  and  go  back 
to  work  in  the  real-estate  office  again,  he  had  no 
prospect  of  any  more.  He  had  not  even  his  steamer 


230  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

ticket.  In  the  shock  of  horror  and  despair  he 
whispered  brokenly: 

"I  don't  care  if  they  're  the  worst  people  in  the 
world,  they  're  better  than  I  am!" 

The  other's  gloom  cleared  a  little  at  this.  "Well, 
you  have  got  it!"  he  exclaimed  briskly.  "You 
don't  know  how  different  you  '11  feel  after  a  long 
walk  in  the  open  air."  He  looked  at  his  watch. 
"I  Ve  got  to  go  and  see  what  that  newspaper- 
man, Cornish,  wants;  it  's  ten  o'clock.  I  '11  be  back 
after  a  while;  I  want  to  reason  this  out  with  you. 
I  don't  deny  but  it  's  possible  I  'm  wrong;  any- 
way, you  think  it  over  while  I  'm  gone.  You  take 
a  good  hard  think,  will  you?" 

As  he  closed  the  door,  Mellin  slowly  drew  the 
coverlet  over  his  head.  It  was  as  if  he  covered 
the  face  of  some  one  who  had  just  died. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

WHAT   CORNISH   KNEW 

TWO  hours  passed  before  young  Cooley  te- 
turned.  He  knocked  twice  without  a 
reply;  then  he  came  in. 

The  coverlet  was  still  over  Mellin's  head. 

"Asleep?"  asked  Cooley. 

"No." 

The  coverlet  was  removed  by  a  shaking  hand. 

"Murder!"  exclaimed  Cooley  sympathetically,  at 
sight  of  the  other's  face.  "A  night  off  certainly 
does  things  to  you !  Better  let  me  get  you  some — 

"No.    I  '11  be  all  right— after  while." 

"Then  I  '11  go  ahead  with  our  little  troubles. 
I  Ve  decided  to  leave  for  Paris  by  the  one-thirty 
and  have  n't  got  a  whole  lot  of  time.  Cornish 
is  here  with  me  in  the  hall:  he  's  got  something  to 
say  that  's  important  for  you  to  hear,  and  I  'm 
goin'  to  bring  him  right  in."  He  waved  his  haixi 
toward  the  door,  which  he  had  left  open.  "Come 

along,  Cornish.     Poor  ole  Mellin  '11  play  Du  Barry 

231 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

with  us  and  give  us  a  morning  leevy  while  he  listens 
in  a  bed  with  a  palanquin  to  it.  Now  let  's  draw 
up  chairs  and  be  sociable." 

The  journalist  came  in,  smoking  a  long  cigar, 
and  took  the  chair  the  youth  pushed  toward  him; 
but,  after  a  twinkling  glance  through  his  big  spec- 
tacles at  the  face  on  the  pillow,  he  rose  and  threw 
the  cigar  out  of  the  window. 

"Go  ahead,"  said  Cooley.  "I  want  you  to  tell 
him  just  what  you  told  me,  and  when  you  're 
through  I  want  to  see  if  he  does  n't  think  I  'in 
Sherlock  Holmes'  little  brother." 

"If  Mr.  Mellin  does  not  feel  too  ill,"  said  Cor- 
nish dryly;  "I  know  how  painful  such  cases  some- 
times  " 

"No."  Mellin  moistened  his  parched  lips  and 
made  a  pitiful  effort  to  smile.  "I  '11  be  all  right 
very  soon." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  began  the  journalist, 
"that  I  was  n't  able  to  get  a  few  words 
with  Mr.  Cooley  yesterday  evening.  Perhaps 
you  noticed  that  I  tried  as  hard  as  I  could, 
without  using  actual  force" — he  laughed — "to  de- 
tain him." 

"You   did   your   best,"    agreed   Cooky   ruefully, 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  233 

"and  I  did  my  worst.  Nobody  ever  listens  till 
the  next  day!" 

"Well,  I  'm  glad  no  vital  damage  was  done, 
anyway,"  said  Cornish.  "It  would  have  been 
pretty  hard  lines  if  you  two  young  fellows  had  been 
poor  men,  but  as  it  is  you  're  probably  none  the 
worse  for  a  lesson  like  this." 

"You  seem  to  think  seven  thousand  dollars  is 
a  joke,"  remarked  Cooley. 

Cornish  laughed  again.  "You  see,  it  flatters 
me  to  think  my  time  was  so  valuable  that  a  ten 
minutes'  talk  with  me  would  have  saved  so  much 
money." 

"I  doubt  it,"  said  Cooley.  "Ten  to  one  we  'd 
neither  of  us  have  believed  you — last  night!" 

"I  doubt  it,  too."  Cornish  turned  to  Mellin. 
"I  hear  that  you,  Mr.  Mellin,  are  still  of  the  opinion 
that  you  were  dealing  with  straight  people?" 

Mellin  managed  to  whisper  "Yes." 

"Then."  said  Cornish,  "I  'd  better  tell  you  just 
what  I  know  about  it,  and  you  can  form  your 
own  opinion  as  to  whether  I  do  know  or  not.  I 
have  been  in  the  newspaper  business  on  this  side 
for  fifteen  years,  and  my  headquarters  are  in  Paris, 
where  these  people  are  very  well  known.  The 


234  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

man  who  calls  himself  *  Chandler  Pedlow'  was  a 
faro-dealer  for  Tom  Stout  in  Chicago  when  Stout's 
place  was  broken  up,  a  good  many  years  ago.  There 
was  a  real  Chandler  Pedlow  in  Congress  from  a 
California  district  in  the  early  nineties,  but  he 
is  dead.  This  man's  name  is  Ben  Welch:  he  *s  a 
professional  swindler;  and  the  Englishman,  Sneyd, 
is  another;  a  quiet  man,  not  so  well  known  as  Welch, 
and  not  nearly  so  clever,  but  a  good  'feeder*  for 
him.  The  very  attractive  Frenchwoman  who  calls 
herself  'Countess  de  Vaurigard'  is  generally  be- 
lieved to  be  Sneyd's  wife,  though  I  could  not  take 
the  stand  on  that  myself.  Welch  is  the  brains 
of  the  organization:  you  might  n't  think  it,  but 
he  's  a  very  brilliant  man — he  might  have  made 
a  great  reputation  in  business  if  he  'd  been  straight 
—and,  with  this  woman's  help,  he  's  carried  out 
some  really  astonishing  schemes.  His  manner  is 
clumsy;  he  knows  that,  bless  you,  but  it  's  the  only 
manner  he  can  manage,  and  she  is  so  adroit  she 
can  sugar-coat  even  such  a  pill  as  that  and  coax 
people  to  swallow  it.  I  don't  know  anything  about 
the  Italian  who  is  working  with  them  down  here. 
But  a  gang  of  the  Welch- Vaurigard-Sneyd  type 
has  tentacles  all  over  the  Continent;  such  people 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  235 

are    in     touch     with      sharpers     everywhere,     you 


see." 


"Yes,"  Cooley  interpolated,  "and  with  woolly 
little  lambkins,  too." 

"Well,"  chuckled  Cornish,  "that  's  the  way  they 
make  their  living,  you  know." 

"Go  on  and  tell  him  the  rest  of  it,"  urged  Cooley. 

"About  Lady  Mount-Rhys wicke,"  said  Cornish, 
"it  seems  strange  enough,  but  she  had  a  perfect 
right  to  her  name.  She  is  a  good  deal  older  than 
she  looks,  and  I've  heard  she  used  to  be  remark- 
ably beautiful.  Her  third  husband  was  Lord 
George  Mount-Rhyswicke,  a  man  who  'd  been 
dropped  from  his  clubs,  and  he  deserted  her  in 
1903,  but  she  had  not  divorced  him.  It  is  said 
that  he  is  somewhere  in  South  America;  however, 
as  to  that  I  do  not  know." 

Mr.  Cornish  put  the  very  slightest  possible  em- 
phasis on  the  word  "know,"  and  proceeded: 

"I  've  heard  that  she  is  sincerely  attached  to 
him  and  sends  him  money  from  time  to  time,  when 
she  has  it — though  that,  too,  is  third-hand  in- 
formation. She  has  been  declasse  ever  since  her 
first  divorce.  That  was  a  'celebrated  case,'  and 
she  's  dropped  down  pretty  far  in  the  world,  though 


236  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

I  judge  she  's  a  good  deal  the  best  of  this  crowd. 
Exactly  what  her  relations  to  the  others  are  I 
don't  know,  but  I  imagine  that  she  's  pretty  thick 
with  'em." 

"Just  a  little!"  exclaimed  Cooley.  "She  sits 
behind  one  of  the  lambkins  and  Helene  behind 
the  other  while  they  get  their  woolly  wool  clipped. 
I  suppose  the  two  of  'em  signaled  what  was  in 
every  hand  we  held,  though  I  'm  sure  they  need  n't 
have  gone  to  the  trouble!  Fact  is,  I  don't  see  why 
they  bothered  about  goin'  through  the  form  of 
play  in'  cards  with  us  at  all.  They  could  have 
taken  it  away  without  that!  Whee!"  Mr.  Cooley 
whistled  loud  and  long.  "And  there  's  loads  of 
wise  young  men  on  the  ocean  now,  hurryin'  over 
to  take  our  places  in  the  pens.  Well,  they  can 
have  mine!  Funny,  Mellin:  nobody  would  come 
up  to  you  or  me  in  the  Grand  Central  in  New 
York  and  try  to  sell  us  greenbacks  just  as  good 
as  real.  But  we  come  over  to  Europe  with  our 
pockets  full  o'  money  and  start  in  to  see  the  Big 
City  with  Jesse  James  in  a  false  mustache  on  one 
arm,  and  Lucresha  Borgy,  under  an  assumed  name, 
on  the  other!" 

"I  am  afraid  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Cornish; 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  237 

"though  I  must  say  that,  from  all  I  hear,  Madame 
de  Vaurigard  might  put  an  atmosphere  about  a 
thing  which  would  deceive  almost  any  one  who 
was  n't  on  his  guard.  When  a  Parisienne  of  her 
sort  is  clever  at  all  she  's  irresistible." 

"I  believe  you,"  Cooley  sighed  deeply. 

"Yesterday  evening,  Mr.  Mellin,"  continued  the 
journalist,  "when  I  saw  the  son  of  my  old  friend 
in  company  with  Welch  and  Sneyd,  of  course  I 
tried  to  warn  him.  I  've  often  seen  them  in  Paris, 
though  I  believe  they  have  no  knowledge  of  me. 
As  I  Ve  said,  they  are  notorious,  especially  Welch, 
yet  they  have  managed,  so  far,  to  avoid  any  diffi- 
culty with  the  Paris  police,  and,  I  'm  sorry  to  say, 
it  might  be  hard  to  actually  prove  anything  against 
them.  You  could  n't  prove  that  anything  was 
crooked  last  night,  for  instance.  For  that  matter, 
I  don't  suppose  you  want  to.  Mr.  Cooley  wishes 
to  accept  his  loss  and  bear  it,  and  I  take  it  that 
that  will  be  your  attitude,  too.  In  regard  to  the 
note  you  gave  Sneyd,  I  hope  you  will  refuse  to 
pay;  I  don't  think  that  they  would  dare  press  the 
matter." 

"Neither  do  I,"  Mr.  Cooley  agreed.  "I  left 
a  silver  cigarette-case  at  the  apartment  last  night, 


238  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

and  after  talkin'  to  Cornish  a  while  ago,  I  sent 
my  man  for  it  with  a  note  to  her  that  '11  make  'em 
all  sit  up  and  take  some  notice.  The  gang  's  all  there 
together,  you  can  be  sure.  I  asked  for  Sneyd  and 
Pedlow  in  the  office  and  found  they  'd  gone  out 
early  this  morning  leavin'  word  they  would  n't  be 
back  till  midnight.  And,  see  here;  I  know  I  'm 
easy,  but  somehow  I  believe  you  're  even  a  softer 
piece  o'  meat  than  I  am.  I  want  you  to  promise  me 
.  that  whatever  happens  you  won't  pay  that  I O  U." 

Mellin  moistened  his  lips  in  vain.  He  could 
not  answer. 

"I  want  you  to  promise  me  not  to  pay  it,"  re- 
peated Cooley  earnestly. 

"I  promise,"  gasped  Mellin. 

"You  won't  pay  it  no  matter  what  they  do?" 

"No." 

This  seemed  to  reassure  Mr.  Cooley. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "I  've  got  to  hustle  to  get  my 
car  shipped  and  make  the  train.  Cornish  has 
finished  his  job  down  here  and  he  's  goin'  with  me. 
I  want  to  get  out.  The  whole  thing  's  left  a  mighty 
bad  taste  in  my  mouth,  and  I  'd  go  crazy  if  I  did  n't 
get  away  from  it.  Why  don't  you  jump  into  your 
clothes  and  come  along,  too?" 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  239 

"I  can't." 

"Well,"  said  the  young  man  with  a  sympathetic 
shake  of  the  head,  "you  certainly  look  sick.  It 
may  be  better  if  you  stay  in  bed  till  evening:  a 
train  's  a  mighty  mean  place  for  the  day  after.  But 
I  wouldn't  hang  around  here  too  long.  'If  you 
want  money,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  ask  the  hotel 
to  cash  a  check  on  your  home  bank;  they  're  al- 
ways glad  to  do  that  for  Americans."  He  turned 
to  the  door.  "Mr.  Cornish,  if  you  're  goin'  to  help 
me  about  shippin'  the  car,  I  'm  ready." 

"So  am  I.     Good-by,  Mr.  Mellin." 

"Good-by,"  Mellin  said  feebly — "and  thank  you." 

Young  Cooley  came  back  to  the  bedside  and 
shook  the  other's  feverish  hand.  "Good-by,  ole 
man.  I  'm  awful  sorry  it  's  all  happened,  but 
I  'm  glad  it  did  n't  cost  you  quite  as  much  money 
as  it  did  me.  Otherwise  I  expect  it 's  hit  us  about 
equally  hard.  I  wish — I  wish  I  could  find  a  nice 
one'9 — the  youth  gulped  over  something  not  un- 
like a  sob — "as  fascinatin'  as  her!" 

Most  people  have  had  dreams  of  approaching 
dangers  in  the  path  of  which  their  bodies  remained 
inert;  when,  in  spite  of  the  frantic  wish  to  fly,  it 
was  impossible  to  move,  while  all  the  time  the 


240  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

horror  crept  closer  and  closer.  This  was  Mellin's 
state  as  he  saw  the  young  man  going.  It  was 
absolutely  necessary  to  ask  Cooley  for  help,  to 
beg  him  for  a  loan.  But  he  could  not. 

He  saw  Cooley 's  hand  on  the  doorknob;  saw 
the  door  swing  open. 

"Good-by,  again,"  Cooley  said;  "and  good  luck 
to  you!" 

Mellin's  will  strove  desperately  with  the  shame 
that  held  him  silent. 

The  door  was  closing. 

"Oh,  Cooley,"  called  Mellin  hoarsely. 

"Yes.     What?" 

"J-j-just  good-by,"  said  Mellin. 

And  with  that  young  Cooley  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  IX 

EXPIATION 

A  MULTITUDINOUS  clangor  of  bells  and  a 
dozen  neighboring  chimes  rang  noon;  then 
the  rectangular  oblongs  of  hot  sunlight 
that  fell  from  the  windows  upon  the  carpet  of 
Mellin's  room  began  imperceptibly  to  shift  their 
angles  and  move  eastward.  From  the  stone  pave- 
ment of  the  street  below  came  the  sound  of  horses 
pawing  and  the  voices  of  waiting  cabmen;  then 
bells  again,  and  more  bells;  clamoring  the  slow  and 
cruel  afternoon  into  the  past.  But  all  was  silent 
in  Mellin's  room,  save  when,  from  time  to  time,  a 
long,  shuddering  sigh  came  from  the  bed. 

The  unhappy  young  man  had  again  drawn  the 
coverlet  over  his  head,  but  not  to  sleep:  it  was 
more  like  a  forlorn  and  desperate  effort  to  hide, 
as  if  he  crept  into  a  hole,  seeking  darkness  to  cover 
the  shame  and  fear  that  racked  his  soul.  For 
though  his  shame  had  been  too  great  to  let  him 
confess  to  young  Cooley  and  ask  for  help,  his  fear 
was  as  great  as  his  shame;  and  it  increased  as  the 

241 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

hours  passed.  In  truth  his  case  was  desperate. 
Except  the  people  who  had  stripped  him,  Cooley 
was  the  only  person  in  all  of  Europe  with  whom 
he  had  more  than  a  very  casual  acquaintance. 
At  home,  in  Cranston,  he  had  no  friends  suscep- 
tible to  such  an  appeal  as  it  was  vitally  necessary 
for  him  to  make.  His  relatives  were  not  numerous: 
there  were  two  aunts,  the  widows  of  his  father's 
brothers,  and  a  number  of  old-maid  cousins;  and 
he  had  an  uncle  in  Iowa,  a  country  minister  whom 
he  had  not  seen  for  years.  But  he  could  not  cable 
to  any  of  these  for  money;  nor  could  he  quite  con- 
jure his  imagination  into  picturing  any  of  them 
sending  it  if  he  did.  And  even  to  cable  he  would 
have  to  pawn  his  watch,  which  was  an  old-fashioned 
one  of  silver  and  might  not  bring  enough  to  pay 
the  charges. 

He  began  to  be  haunted  by  fragmentary,  prophetic 
visions — confused  but  realistic  in  detail,  and  hor- 
ribly probable — of  his  ejectment  from  the  hotel, 
perhaps  arrest  and  trial.  He  wondered  what  they 
did  in  Italy  to  people  who  "beat"  hotels;  and, 
remembering  what  some  one  had  told  him  of  the 
dreadfulness  of  Italian  jails,  convulsive  shudder- 
ings  seized  upon  him- 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  243 

The  ruddy  oblongs  of  sunlight  crawled  nearer 
to  the  east  wall  of  the  room,  stretching  themselves 
thinner  and  thinner,  until  finally  they  were  not 
there  at  all,  and  the  room  was  left  in  deepening 
grayness.  Carriages,  one  after  the  other,  in  unin- 
termittent  succession,  rumbled  up  to  the  hotel- 
entrance  beneath  the  window,  bringing  goldfish  for 
the  aquarium  from  the  music  pond  on  the  Pincio 
and  the  fountains  of  Villa  Borghese.  Wild  strains 
from  the  Hungarian  orchestra,  rhapsodical  twank- 
ings  of  violins,  and  the  runaway  arpeggios  of  a 
zither  crazed  with  speed-mania,  skipped  along  the 
corridors  and  lightly  through  Mellin's  door.  In 
his  mind's  eye  he  saw  the  gay  crowd  in  the  watery 
light,  the  little  tables  where  only  five  days  ago 
he  had  sat  with  the  loveliest  of  all  the  anemone- 
like  ladies.  .  .  . 

The  beautifully-dressed  tea-drinkers  were  there 
now,  under  the  green  glass  dome,  prattling  and 
smiling,  those  people  he  had  called  his  own.  And 
as  the  music  sounded  louder,  faster,  wilder  and 
wilder  with  the  gipsy  madness — then  in  that  dark- 
ening bedchamber  his  soul  became  articulate  in  a 
cry  of  humiliation: 

"God  in  His  mercy  forgive  me,  how  raw  I  was!" 


*44  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

A  VISION  came  before  his  closed  eyes;  the  maple- 
bordered  street  in  Cranston,  the  long,  straight, 
wide  street  where  Mary  Kramer  lived;  a  summer 
twilight;  Mary  in  her  white  muslin  dress  on  the 
veranda  steps,  and  a  wistaria  vine  climbing  the 
post  beside  her,  half-embowering  her.  How  cool 
and  sweet  and  good  she  looked!  How  dear — and 
how  kind! — she  had  always  been  to  him. 

DUSK  stole  through  the  windows:  the  music  ceased 
and  the  tea-hour  was  over.  The  carriages  were 
departing,  bearing  the  gay  people  who  went  away 
laughing,  calling  last  words  to  one  another,  and, 
naturally,  quite  unaware  that  a  young  man,  who, 
five  days  before,  had  adopted  them  and  called 
them  "his  own,"  was  lying  in  a  darkened  room 
above  them,  and  crying  like  a  child  upon  his  pillow. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE    CAB   AT   THE   CORNER 

AT  ten  o'clock,  a  page  bearing  a  card  upoa 
a    silver    tray    knocked    upon    the    door, 
and  stared  with  wide-eyed  astonishment 
at  the  disordered  gentleman  who  opened  it. 

The  card  was  Lady  Mount-Rhys  wicke's.  Under- 
neath the  name  was  written: 

If  you  are  there  will  you  give  me  a  few  minutes?  I  am  waiting 
in  a  cab  at  the  next  corner  by  the  fountain. 

Mellin's  hand  shook  as  he  read.  He  did  not 
doubt  that  she  came  as  an  emissary;  probably 
they  meant  to  hound  him  for  payment  of  the  note 
he  had  given  Sneyd,  and  at  that  thought  he  could 
have  shrieked  with  hysterical  laughter. 

"Do  you  speak  English?"  he  asked. 

"Spik  little.     Yes." 

"Who  gave  you  this  card?" 

"Coachman,"  said  the  boy.     "He  wait  risposta." 

"Tell  him  to  say  that  I  shall  be  there  in  fire 

minutes." 

246 


246  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

"Pi'  minute.    Yes.     Good-by." 

Mellin  was  partly  dressed — he  had  risen  half 
an  hour  earlier  and  had  been  distractedly  pacing 
the  floor  when  the  page  knocked — and  he  com- 
pleted his  toilet  quickly.  He  passed  down  the 
corridors,  descended  by  the  stairway  (feeling  that 
to  use  the  elevator  would  be  another  abuse  of  the 
confidence  of  the  hotel  company)  and  slunk  across 
the  lobby  with  the  look  and  the  sensations  of  a 
tramp  who  knows  that  he  will  be  kicked  into  the 
street  if  anybody  catches  sight  of  him. 

A  closed  cab  stood  near  the  fountain  at  the  next 
corner.  There  was  a  trunk  on  the  box  by  the 
driver,  and  the  roof  was  piled  with  bags  and  rugs. 
He  approached  uncertainly. 

"Is — is  this — is  it  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke?"  he 
stammered  pitifully. 

She  opened  the  door. 

"Yes.  Will  you  get  in?  We  '11  just  drive  round 
the  block  if  you  don't  mind.  I  '11  bring  you  back 
here  in  ten  minutes."  And  when  he  had  tremu- 
lously complied,  "Avanti,  cocchiere,"  she  called  to 
the  driver,  and  the  tired  little  cab-horse  began  to 
draw  them  slowly  along  the  deserted  street. 

Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  maintained  silence  for  a 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  247 

time,  while  her  companion  waited,  his  heart  pound- 
ing with  dreadful  apprehension.  Finally  she  gave 
a  short,  hard  laugh  and  said: 

"I  saw  your  face  by  the  corner  light.  Been 
havin'  a  hard  day  of  it?" 

The  fear  of  breaking  down  kept  him  from  an- 
swering. He  gulped  painfully  once  or  twice,  and 
turned  his  face  away  from  her.  Light  enough 
from  a  street-lamp  shone  in  for  her  to  see. 

"I  was  rather  afraid  you  'd  refuse,"  she  said 
seriously.  "Really,  I  wonder  you  were  willin'  to 
come!" 

"I  was — I  was  afraid  not  to."  He  choked  out 
the  confession  with  the  recklessness  of  final  despair. 

"So?"  she  said,  with  another  short  laugh.  Then 
she  resumed  her  even,  tired  monotone:  "Your 
little  friend  Cooley's  note  this  morning  gave  us  all 
a  rather  fair  notion  as  to  what  you  must  be  thinkin' 
of  us.  He  seems  to  have  found  a  sort  of  walkin' 
'Who's- Who-on-the-Continent'  since  last  night.  Pity 
for  some  people  he  did  n't  find  it  before !  I  don't 
think  I  'm  sympathetic  with  your  little  Cooley. 
I  'guess/  as  you  Yankees  say,  'he  can  stand  it.' 
But" — her  voice  suddenly  became  louder — "I  'm 
not  in  the  business  of  robbin'  babies  and  orphans, 


S48  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

BO,  my  dear  friends,  nor  of  helpin'  anybody  else 
to  rob  them  either! — Here  you  are!" 

She  thrust  into  his  hand  a  small  packet,  securely 
wrapped  in  paper  and  fastened  with  rubber  bands. 
"There  's  your  block  of  express  checks  for  six  hun- 
dred dollars  and  your  I  O  U  to  Sneyd  with  it. 
Take  better  care  of  it  next  time." 

He  had  been  tremulous  enough,  but  at  that  his 
whole  body  began  to  shake  violently. 

"What!"  he  quavered. 

"I  say,  take  better  care  of  it  next  time,"  she 
said,  dropping  again  into  her  monotone.  "I  did  n't 
have  such  an  easy  time  gettin'  it  back  from  them 
as  you  might  think.  I  've  got  rather  a  sore  wrist, 
in  fact." 

She  paused  at  an  inarticulate  sound  from  him. 

"Oh,  that  's  soon  mended,"  she  laughed  drearily. 
"The  truth  is,  it  's  been  a  good  thing  for  me — 
your  turning  up.  They  're  gettin'  in  too  deep 
water  for  me,  Helene  and  her  friends,  and  I  *ve 
broken  with  the  lot,  or  they  've  broken  with  me, 
whichever  it  is.  We  could  n't  hang  together  after 
the  fi^itin'  we  've  done  to-day.  I  had  to  do  a 
lot  of  tkreatenin'  and  things.  Welch  was  ugly,  so 
I  had  to  be  ugly  too.  Never  mind" — she  checked 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  249 

an  uncertain  effort  of  his  to  speak — "I  saw  what 
you  were  like,  soon  as  we  sat  down  at  the  table 
last  night — how  new  you  were  and  all  that.  It 
needed  only  a  glance  to  see  that  Helene  had  made 
a  mistake  about  you.  She  'd  got  a  notion  you 
were  a  millionaire  like  the  little  Cooley,  but  I 
knew  better  from  your  talk.  She  's  clever,  but 
she  's  French,  and  she  can't  get  it  out  of  her  head 
that  you  could  be  an  American  and  not  a  million- 
aire.  Of  course,  they  all  knew  better  when  you 
brought  out  your  express  checks  and  talked  like 
somebody  in  one  of  the  old-time  story-books  about 
'debts  of  honor.*  Even  Helene  understood  then 
that  the  express  checks  were  all  you  had."  She 
laughed.  "I  did  n't  have  any  trouble  gettin'  the 
note  back!" 

She  paused  again  for  a  moment,  then  resumed: 
"There  is  n't  much  use  our  goin'  over  it  all,  but  I 
want  you  to  know  one  thing.  Your  little  friend 
Cooley  made  it  rather  clear  that  he  accused  Helene 
and  me  of  signalin'.  Well,  7  did  n't.  Perhaps  that 's 
the  reason  you  did  n't  lose  as  much  as  he  did;  I 
can't  say.  And  one  tiling  more:  all  this  is  n't  goin* 
to  do  you  any  harm.  I  'm  not  very  keen  about 
philosophy  and  religion  and  that,  but  I  believe 


250  HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

if  you  're  let  in  for  a  lot  of  trouble,  and  it  only  half 
kills  you,  you  can  get  some  good  of  it." 

"Do  you  think,"  he  stammered — "do  you  think 
I  'm  worth  saving?" 

She  smiled  faintly  and  said: 

"You  've  probably  got  a  sweetheart  in  the  States 
somewhere — &  nice  girl,  z  pretty  young  thing  who 
goes  to  church  and  thinks  you  're  a  great  man, 
perhaps?  Is  it  so?" 

"I  am  not  worthy,"  he  began,  choked  suddenly, 
then  finished — "to  breathe  the  same  air!" 

"That  's  quite  right,"  Lady  Mouiit-Rhyswicke 
assured  him.  "Think  what  you  'd  think  of  her 
if  she  'd  got  herself  into  the  same  sort  of  .scrape 
by  doin'  the  things  you  've  been  doin'!  And  re- 
member thai  if  you  ever  feel  impatient  with  her, 
or  have  any  temptations  to  superiority  in  times 
to  come.  And  yet" — for  the  moment  she  spoke 
earnestly — "you  go  back  to  your  little  girl,  but 
don't  you  tell  her  a  word  of  this.  You  could  n't  even 
tell  her  that  meetin'  you  has  helped  me,  because 
she  would  n't  understand." 

"Nor  do  I.     I  can't." 

"Oh,  it  's  simple.  I  saw  that  if  I  was  gettin* 
down  to  where  I  was  robbin'  babies  and  orphans  . . ." 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE  251 

The  cab  halted.  "Here  's  your  corner.  I  told  him 
only  to  go  round  the  block  and  come  back. 
Good-by.  I  'm  off  for  Amalfi.  It  's  a  good  place 
to  rest." 

He  got  out  dazedly,  and  the  driver  cracked  his 
whip  over  the  little  horse;  but  Mellin  lifted  a  de- 
taining hand. 

"A  spet\"  called  Lady  Mount-Rhyswicke  .to  the 
driver.  "What  is  it,  Mr.  Mellin?" 

"I  can't — I  can't  look  you  in  the  face,"  he  stam- 
mered, his  attitude  perfectly  corroborative  of  his 
words.  "I  would — oh,  I  would  kneel  in  the  dust 
here  before  you— 

"Some  of  the  poetry  you  told  me  you  write?" 

"I  've  never  written  any  poetry,"  he  said,  not 
looking  up.  "Perhaps  I  can — now.  What  I  want 
to  say  is — I  'm  so  ashamed  of  it — I  don't  know  how 
to  get  the  words  out,  but  I  must.  I  may  never 
see  you  again,  and  I  must.  I  'm  sorry — please 
try  to  forgive  me — I  was  n't  myself  when  I  did 
it " 

"Blurt  it  out;  that 's  the  best  way." 

"I  'm  sorry,"  he  floundered — "I  'm  sorry  I  kissed 
you." 

She  laughed   her   tired   laugh   and   said   in   her 


HIS  OWN  PEOPLE 

tired  voice  the  last  words  he  was  ever  destined 
to  hear  from  her: 

"Oh,  I  don't  mind,  if  you  don't.  It  was  so  inno- 
cent, it  was  what  decided  me." 

One  of  the  hundreds  of  good  saints  that  belong 
to  Rome  must  have  overheard  her  and  pitied  the 
young  man,  for  it  is  ascribable  only  to  some  such 
special  act  of  mercy  that  Mellin  understood  (and 
he  did)  exactly  what  she  meant. 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PR 
GARDEN  CITY,  N.  Y. 


